


How to Date a Robot

by Sineala



Category: Avengers (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Angst, Avengers Vol. 1 (1963), Cuddling & Snuggling, Dating, Depression, Early in Canon, Fluff, Happy Ending, Heart Attacks, Identity Porn, Identity Reveal, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Marvel Trumps Hate 2019, Misunderstandings, Pajamas & Sleepwear, Self-Hatred, Sexual Dysfunction, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:54:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 41,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27659810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sineala/pseuds/Sineala
Summary: How do you date a robot? Even the twenty-first century doesn't have the answers to every question. Steve will have to figure this one out for himself -- after he politely rebuffs Mr. Stark's interest, of course. Sure, Mr. Stark is handsome, but Steve would rather be with his bodyguard. So when Iron Man agrees to go on a date with Steve, Steve couldn't be happier. He loves Iron Man with all of his heart, and their relationship rapidly grows serious. But why does Mr. Stark hate Iron Man so much? And why in the world is Mr. Stark trying to tear Steve and Iron Man apart?
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 262
Kudos: 1164
Collections: Iron Man's Identity is a Secret, Marvel Trumps Hate 2019





	How to Date a Robot

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ChibiSquirt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChibiSquirt/gifts).



> This story was written for Marvel Trumps Hate 2019 for ChibiSquirt, who requested an early-canon 616 identity porn story based on a Tumblr post that I can no longer find in which Steve googles "how to date a robot." Then I accidentally wrote 40,000 words. Whoops.
> 
> This is set very early in canon, during the days of the founders, before Steve starts working for SHIELD, but after Happy knows who Tony is. Also everyone on the team knows who Hank and Jan are because I say so. That happens way too late in canon and there are already too many secret identities in this story. Additionally, the Joanna Nivena retcon is not in.
> 
> Contains some internalized ableist attitudes and vocabulary, because Tony Stark is the best at hating himself.
> 
> Thanks to BlossomsintheMist for beta!
> 
> Enjoy!

Steve wouldn't say he's afraid, precisely. After all, he was right there on Omaha Beach for D-Day, two years and a lifetime ago. But as he stares at the empty Google search bar on the laptop computer screen, he's willing to admit to a certain amount of... trepidation, churning in his stomach.

_No one monitors your internet access_ , Mr. Stark had assured him, the day he'd moved into the mansion. The phrase had been meaningless to him then, of course, but he understands it now.

He checks over his shoulder, a nervous and unnecessary motion, even though he's in his bedroom and no one could possibly be watching him.

Jan had taken it upon herself to show Steve how to use a computer, that first week; Mr. Stark had unexpectedly come in halfway through the lesson, and Steve had tried not to be distracted by the presence of his extremely handsome landlord. He saw Mr. Stark so rarely that every time Steve was tongue-tied and nearly struck dumb once again by his matinee-idol looks. But this was an important lesson, something he was going to need to know about the future, and he wasn't going to let his attention wander.

Even if Mr. Stark was very attractive.

_You can find everything you want on the internet_ , Jan had told him, eyes aglow with delight. _The answer to every question. You can buy whatever you want, read all the books you want, watch all the movies you want. The internet is for--_

Then Mr. Stark had smirked and made a quiet snickering noise, like there was a private joke here that Steve wasn't in on. Jan must have known what he meant, because she scowled.

_No, Tony_ , she had said, sternly. _We're not corrupting Captain America._

_Whatever it is, I think I can handle it_ , Steve had told them both.

Mr. Stark had coughed a few times, like he hadn't expected to be called on to explain himself. _Ahem. The internet includes, let's just say, a wide variety of private entertainment for discerning adults. There's a song about it, actually. From a musical. The title is... awfully succinct, as these things go._

_Oh_. Steve had felt his face growing hot. It wasn't like he didn't know what Mr. Stark had meant. They'd had dirty pictures during the war, after all, and people were still people.

He tried to put it all out of his mind, after that.

And yet, here he is, six months later, with a whole new problem and only one question on his mind, consuming his thoughts every day, a question so private that he can only trust the anonymity of the internet to answer it for him. There will be an answer. The internet has answers to everything.

He types it in, one laborious letter at a time:

_How do I date a robot?_

* * *

Of course, that's not the whole story.

And Iron Man's not _really_ a robot. Steve knows that. Some people these days have some funny ideas about what it must mean for Steve to be from 1945, like he's not as smart as anyone else is, but Steve knows there's a man under the armor. He can tell the difference. It's the first thing he remembers seeing, really _seeing_ , when he woke from the ice: the red-gold gleam of Iron Man's armor, and the brilliant blue of Iron Man's eyes behind the mask. It's the first thing he heard, too: the crackle of Iron Man's voice, like a static-filled radio.

Iron Man could, in theory, be an android. It's not like Steve's never met androids -- he was proud to count Jim Hammond as a fellow Invader, no different than anyone else -- but he thinks an android probably wouldn't want an armored suit unless they were already built into one. And Iron Man doesn't talk much about himself, but he definitely has the basic physical needs of a human. Steve's seen him drinking all sorts of beverages, a straw jammed into the mouth-slit of his mask. So. Probably not an android.

But even if Iron Man's not really a robot, the problem Steve has isn't actually entirely _dissimilar_ to the one he would have if Iron Man were a robot, is the thing. He can't exactly touch Iron Man, and Iron Man can't exactly do things like eat regular meals with other people around, as far as Steve can tell. So he can't very well invite Iron Man out to an evening of dinner and dancing, like he could if Iron Man were a regular man.

The internet assured him that there were clubs where men could dance together now, wearing whatever they liked, and no one gave a damn. There were no blue ticket discharges, no police raids, no MPs guarding the doors. Not anymore. The internet in fact assured him that it was all legal, all of it, everything he could think of, right up to two men or two women being able to walk down the aisle together. Steve has filed that last fact away as _maybe a little too ambitious to contemplate, right now_.

But a date -- a date seems safe.

He has the feeling that Iron Man likes him. He sure likes Iron Man a lot, anyway, and it seems like it might be mutual. They work together amazingly well on the field, and Iron Man spends a heck of a lot of time around him even when they're not fighting supervillains, so much so that Steve wonders if Mr. Stark is really safe without his bodyguard. Iron Man's smart, too. Maybe not as smart as they all say Mr. Stark is -- Steve wouldn't really know -- but almost any time he's had a question about the future, Iron Man's been happy to explain it, however long it takes. He cracks jokes, terrible jokes, like he just wants to make Steve smile, and when Steve's around him sometimes he feels like Iron Man's presence is the one thing that makes being in this century all worth it.

And if Steve's lonely thoughts, late at night, sometimes turn to the fantasy of unlatching Iron Man's armor, slowly, piece by piece, running his hands and mouth over the mysterious man who lies beneath the metal -- well, he can hardly be faulted for that, can he? The ice didn't freeze all desire out of him. He may be Captain America, but he's still a man.

Right now, though, he has two problems:

One: He doesn't even know if Iron Man likes him. Or men at all.

Two: Google has utterly failed him. All the search results for _how do I date a robot_ are people framing the question as a hypothetical, talking about books or movies where it happens, asking each other if they would ever do it. That's all well and good for them, Steve supposes, but it doesn't answer the more pressing question of what Steve should do if he has a Saturday night free and a fella in a metal suit he'd like to get to know better. It's nowhere near hypothetical for him.

The solution to both his problems, he supposes, is the same. He just has to man up and ask Iron Man out. And if Iron Man says yes -- well, then maybe Steve can come up with some date ideas.

Steve closes the window of search results before his resolve fails him in a different way and he can succumb to the temptation of the link labeled _Erotic Robot Short Stories_. His libido sure doesn't need any more encouragement.

* * *

Steve's always been a man of action, and a man of his word, even when his word has only been given to himself. When he says he's going to do a thing, he does it. So when he promises himself that he'll ask Iron Man out the next day, he knows in his heart that he means it.

He already has the setting planned out: in the kitchen, in the morning, over coffee. Iron Man can't drink hot coffee, of course, but he likes to have iced coffee through a straw. Even though Iron Man doesn't live at the mansion like Steve does -- none of the rest of the team lives here full-time -- somehow he's always the first one there after Steve gets up. By the time Steve comes back from his morning run, Iron Man is usually there in the kitchen, slurping away; if there's no Avengers business for the day and he's not needed immediately to guard Mr. Stark over at SI, then he usually has some time to spare for Steve. It'll be perfect.

Steve spends his morning run lost in a haze of daydreaming, counting down the minutes until he can finally see Iron Man, planning every word of his speech. His feet carry him back to the mansion, through the gate, through the door, past the foyer, into the kitchen, where Iron Man-- where Iron Man--

Iron Man isn't there.

Mr. Stark is.

He's paging through what looks like the morning's _Daily Bugle_ on his tablet. He's wearing a three-piece suit; his sleeves are rolled up and his suit coat is draped over the back of the empty chair next to him. He's halfway through a steaming mug of black coffee and a bagel slathered with cream cheese. He glances up, sees Steve, and smiles a rather handsome smile.

"Captain!" he says. His voice is pleasant, friendly. "And here I was beginning to worry that I wouldn't be up early enough to catch you."

Steve is still staring, completely flummoxed, as his plan for the morning falls apart around him. This wasn't supposed to happen. Iron Man was supposed to be here. He can't think of a thing to say. He hopes he doesn't look as surprised as he feels. It doesn't help that Mr. Stark is so damned good-looking. It makes it hard to think straight around him.

Mr. Stark squints at him. "Are you all right there, Captain? Is something wrong? You look a little-- I don't know--"

"I'm fine," Steve says, quickly. He doesn't need Mr. Stark worrying about him, not when he likely has so many more important things to worry about. "Just surprised, I guess. I thought Iron Man would be here instead."

An indefinable sadness ripples over Mr. Stark's face, a storm front passing through his blue, blue eyes, and then disappears entirely. "He's downstairs in my workshop," Mr. Stark says, his voice much more brisk now. "I stayed here last night to make some modifications to his armor. Do you need to talk to him? Is it Avengers business?" He pushes his chair back like he means to stand up. "Just give me a few minutes and I can fetch him for you."

"No, no, that's really okay!" 

Steve realizes he sounds far too panicked than he should for such a simple question, but his mind is rapidly filling with scenarios of how awkward that would be. He can't ask Iron Man's boss, a titan of industry with far better things to do than cater to Steve's every whim, to interrupt his own breakfast to call Iron Man up here just so Steve can ask him _on a date_. The very thought makes him want to cringe.

It's not the most awkward thing that's happening right now. Steve was unconsciously beginning to reach for Mr. Stark and push him back down into his seat -- dear God -- and Mr. Stark, clearly appalled, has been twisting away to avoid Steve's touch. Horrified at his own boldness, Steve stops where he is, and then Mr. Stark does too, and now they're here, a frozen, unbalanced tableau.

Steve's face is hot and he jerks his hands away. It's obvious he shouldn't have presumed to try to touch him. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Stark," he says, practically stammering his way through the man's name. "It's kind of you, but I don't want to bother either of you. I'm sure I'll have plenty of chances to talk to Iron Man later."

Mr. Stark slowly settles back into his chair. "Okay," he says, very softly, and Steve can't help but feel like he's said something wrong, though he doesn't know what. "If you're certain."

Okay. Well. Steve doesn't know what to do except go on from here. He gets up, pours himself a cup of orange juice and a bowl of cereal, and carries them both back to the table.

Something's still wrong, though. Mr. Stark is, it is now obvious, only pretending to read the news on his tablet. He keeps swiping up and down the same article like he's not actually taking in any of it no matter how much he tries.

"Mr. Stark?" Steve ventures, and the man's head snaps up, so fast that an errant curl of dark hair falls into his eyes. A part of Steve wants to push it back for him. "Are _you_ all right?"

The oddest transformation happens to the man's face then; he slips on a bright, charming smile, like charisma is something he can wear, and despite knowing that it's happening, Steve is still drawn in.

"Fine, fine," Mr. Stark says. He pauses. He swallows, glancing away, and the nervousness looks real, not feigned -- but then his gaze is back on Steve again, with that same thousand-watt smile. Steve has met presidents and movie stars, and this man would outshine every one of them. "I just... had a question for you."

"Oh?"

Steve has no idea what a fella like Mr. Stark could possibly want with him.

"I don't know if you'd be interested," Mr. Stark begins, "but I've got two tickets to the Yankees game tomorrow. And I know that you're-- I mean, Iron Man told me that you're a baseball fan, even if you're probably not a Yankees fan. But the VIP area is really something else, and I thought-- I thought maybe you might want to come with me."

He can hear the hope in Mr. Stark's voice, even as Mr. Stark starts to stutter in what sounds a lot like actual fear. And then Steve realizes why Mr. Stark might be nervous.

Steve takes a deep breath. "Do you mean-- are you talking about a date?"

Mr. Stark, on the other hand, stops breathing entirely. This is fair. It's probably a surprise; Steve hasn't actually told him -- or anyone else in this century -- that he's queer too, even if the internet was all too happy to inform him about Mr. Stark's proclivities. After a few seconds Mr. Stark swallows hard, mustering what has to be a remarkable amount of courage, and he says, "It doesn't have to be a date. But if you wanted it to be one -- I'd be really happy to hear that."

He gives Steve a small, hopeful smile, and Steve knows that that's the real him. This isn't an act. Mr. Stark really does want to go out with him.

Suddenly, all Steve can picture is Iron Man.

It's ridiculous, of course -- he hasn't asked Iron Man out yet. He doesn't even know what Iron Man would say. And none of this would oblige Steve to go steady with either of them. But somehow it feels disloyal. And unfair, to get Mr. Stark's hopes up when Steve's heart is elsewhere. Oh, Mr. Stark would be a great date -- the internet has also assured him of this, _repeatedly_ \-- but he's not Iron Man.

"You're a real swell guy, Mr. Stark," Steve starts to say, and he feels horribly guilty as he watches Mr. Stark's face fall, "and I like you a lot. It was nice of you to ask me. I'm sure we'd have a good time together. But I-- I've got my eye on someone else. I was thinking of asking them out. And I don't think it's fair to you for me to go out with you when I'm already thinking about someone else, you know?" He pauses. Mr. Stark is trying to hide his emotions behind a brave face, but there's sorrow in his eyes now. "You shouldn't have to settle for that. You deserve someone who wants _you_ , for yourself, first and foremost. And you're a good man, an amazing man, so I'm sure you'll find that person."

If Iron Man hadn't existed, Steve would have said yes to Mr. Stark. In a heartbeat. But he doesn't think knowing that will make Mr. Stark feel any better.

Mr. Stark takes a few harsh breaths. When he speaks, his voice is rougher now. "Thanks," he says. He half-smiles; it's a pained expression. "Honestly, I think that's the kindest brush-off I've ever gotten."

It isn't like Steve was trying to hurt him. "I'm sorry. I hope you find someone who makes you happy."

He figures it'll be easy for Mr. Stark -- rich, brilliant, and handsome. He's got it all. He'll be able to find the right person in no time.

"Well." Mr. Stark's smile is once again tinged with sadness. "I guess we'll see about that, won't we?"

Steve eats his cereal in slightly fraught silence and gets up to wash his dishes. When he heads to the door, Mr. Stark turns around.

"Captain?"

"Yes?"

"Your special someone," Mr. Stark says. "I hope they say yes."

"Thanks," Steve says. "Me too."

He holds up his hand and slowly crosses two fingers. He hopes they still have that gesture these days, but Mr. Stark smiles at him again and gives him a thumbs-up, like pilots used to, so they must still do that.

He wonders if Iron Man's smile is as nice as Mr. Stark's. It surely must be.

* * *

As it turns out, he doesn't end up seeing Iron Man until that afternoon. And when Steve does see him -- well, the immediate circumstances aren't exactly conducive to romance.

"Cap!" Iron Man yells over the comms. "Duck!"

Steve throws himself to the ground just in time, as one of the Enchantress' blasts of magic goes over his head.

He briefly regrets that he's the only one on the team who can't fly. Everyone else is in the air, nimbly avoiding the attacks of Baron Zemo and his new Masters of Evil -- who, so far, still seem to be just the Enchantress and the Executioner. They're Asgardians, Steve has gathered, but from the battle cries that Thor has been shouting, they're certainly no friends of his.

"Thanks, Shellhead!" Steve calls back, as he pushes himself to his feet again and leaps back into the fray.

"Anytime, partner!" Iron Man returns.

Steve finds himself grinning as he lines up his next throw -- if his shield can carom off that streetlight there, he should be able to hit Zemo from behind, and the guy will never know what took him down.

And he couldn't have done any of it without Iron Man's help.

Oh, he's grateful for the rest of the Avengers -- Ant-Man and the Wasp are able fighters and good teammates, and he's sure glad they have someone like Thor on their side -- but no one compares to Iron Man. Not even any of his old Invaders. They're just... perfectly in sync. Matched.

After that one close call, the rest of the fight is easy. Sadly, the Masters of Evil scatter before anyone can round them up -- and Steve still isn't sure what it would take to make Asgardians stay put, anyway -- but at least there are no civilian casualties, no team casualties, and no property damage. It's been a good day for Earth's mightiest heroes. He wonders if maybe it could be an even better one.

He goes through the debriefing afterward as quickly as he can, all his thoughts focused on the man sitting next to him, and soon enough the meeting is adjourned. The other Avengers start to leave and that, unfortunately, includes Iron Man.

_Today_ , Steve had promised himself. Well, he's not going to get a better chance than this.

When the two of them are the last Avengers remaining in the room, Steve clears his throat and stands up. He debates pulling the cowl off and then decides against it. Iron Man doesn't need to see him with his hair sticking up. He needs to make a good impression. _Come on, soldier. You can do this._

"Iron Man?" Steve asks, and Iron Man pauses and turns halfway around. "You have a minute?"

"For you, Winghead? Of course. Always." Iron Man's already starting to take a few steps in his direction.

It's answers like these that make Steve think he has some kind of chance with Iron Man, even though he knows nothing about him.

The blue eyes behind the mask are quizzical. Iron Man's probably wondering what Steve wants with him. "What do you need? Did you want to talk tactics? Because, I mean, I thought that fight went pretty well, but if you--"

Steve holds up his hands before Iron Man can get too carried away. "Nothing like that! You were great out there, like always." The golden faceplate tilts, as if Iron Man is trying to modestly avoid well-deserved praise. "I meant more of a, um. A personal question."

Iron Man's head is now tilted in the other direction. He's curious now, that's for certain. They've been friends ever since Steve joined the team, but Steve's never asked him any kind of intimate question. Not like this. Iron Man's secret identity is paramount. But he doesn't need to know who Iron Man is to have a good time, and he hopes Iron Man feels the same way about him.

_Spit it out, Rogers._

"I was wondering if you wanted to go out with me," he blurts out. "On a date."

If Steve weren't actually living through this, he might have called Iron Man's reaction comedic. Iron Man takes a stunned step backwards, boots ringing heavily on the floor as he nearly trips. His eyes are wide and shocked, and he glances to either side of him as if there might be someone else here that Steve is talking to, before motioning incredulously to himself. His eyes are even wider; he brings one gauntleted hand up to half-cover the unibeam housing of his suit.

When Iron Man speaks, his filtered, staticky voice is high with surprise. " _Me?_ "

"Yes, you." Steve's nerves are still singing with tension, but he manages to smile. God, he hopes Iron Man says yes. "Is there some reason I shouldn't ask you?" There is, of course, the most obvious answer. "Are you-- are you not interested in me?"

"I-- I-- I--" Iron Man stammers. He can't even get a sentence out. "You-- you know who you're asking, right? I live in a suit of armor, Cap. You can have practically anyone in the whole wide world. I can't give you a normal relationship." He gestures at himself again, at his glorious armor, as if that's supposed to put Steve off.

"I don't care about _normal_ ," Steve returns. "I care about _you_ , Shellhead." He's still on edge, waiting; Iron Man hasn't given him a straight answer yet. "And I was hoping you might care about me too." He pauses. He hates to think of it, but he should probably start contemplating rejection about now. "But if you don't want to--"

"I want to." Iron Man's voice is soft. He sounds like there's something else he wants to say, some other reason he wants to give that would discourage Steve, but when he speaks again, he must have changed his mind. "My God, Cap-- _Steve_. You have no idea how much I want to." 

Hearing Iron Man say his name like that, low and somehow tender even with the way the armor distorts his voice, makes Steve shiver.

Hope blossoming within him, Steve leans in. "Then... yes? Will you?"

Iron Man laughs like a radio between stations. "All right, all right. Okay. Yeah. Yes. Take me out, Cap. I'm all yours. Where are we going?"

And then Steve stops short and starts laughing with him, because he's right back where he started: he _still_ doesn't know how to date a robot. Goddammit.

"Uh," Steve says. Captain Suave, he is not. He thinks maybe he should have asked Mr. Stark for dating tips. Restaurant recommendations. Anything. "I... uh. I didn't really get that far."

Iron Man slings a metal-clad arm over his shoulders -- they're touching, they're _touching_ , they can touch now -- and leans down to murmur in his ear. "Not a problem," he says, smoothly, confidently, like _he's_ been asking Mr. Stark for dating tips -- and, heck, Steve doesn't know, maybe he has been. "I have a few suggestions."

* * *

Iron Man takes Steve to the movies.

The funny thing is, whenever people have asked Steve what he misses about the past, he's been tempted to answer _movie theaters_. Oh, there's nothing wrong with modern movies. He's enjoying modern movies. He just thinks that, when it comes to theaters, the future doesn't know what it's missing out on.

He knows he's expected to be impressed by movie theaters now. The screens are huge, the seats -- _stadium seating_ , they call it, a phrase that made more sense to Steve only after he'd also seen modern ballparks -- are plush, and the concessions stands sell a whole lot more different kinds of food than he'd ever imagined. But there aren't any newsreels anymore, or cartoons, and the trailers themselves practically give away the entire plot of the whole movie.

They've-- well, maybe it's sentimental of him to say so, but they've lost their _soul_. Theaters in his days used to have columns, balconies, painted murals, an organist to play during intermission. Sure, maybe Steve never had enough money for the really nice theaters, the ones that were velvet all over with gilded trim. He was lucky if he had a nickel for the double feature. But even at the kinds of places Steve went to, you used to dress up. You made an occasion of it, because there wasn't much else to do.

And since he's going out as Captain America, side by side with his teammate Iron Man, he doesn't even get to dress up.

So it's hard not to be a little disappointed -- just a little, because he's still _going on a date with Iron Man_ , after all -- as Iron Man stands on the sidewalk outside the mansion and opens the back door of what looks an awful lot like one of Mr. Stark's chauffeured cars, dark and professional and elegant. Iron Man hasn't even told him where they're going or what film they're seeing, but they're clearly getting there in style. Iron Man's grip on the door is dextrous, delicate, even with the gauntlets on; Steve wonders if, like him, Iron Man can dent ordinary metal if he isn't careful.

When Steve slides into the back seat, he discovers that he isn't alone. That's Mr. Stark's own driver up front.

"Captain," Mr. Hogan says. "Good to see you!"

"Likewise," Steve replies, a little stunned. He hadn't expected Iron Man to go to all this trouble for him.

Then Iron Man comes in the other side, shutting the door behind him; the car creaks a little with the weight of the armor. He buckles his seatbelt, just as Steve did, which seems a little pointless to Steve given that Iron Man is fully armored and the belt probably isn't rated for his weight in the armor, but he supposes it's the principle of the thing. "Okay, Happy," he says, addressing Mr. Hogan. "Off we go."

Mr. Hogan -- Happy? -- grins broadly into the mirror. "Whatever you say, b--" Oddly, his mouth snaps shut and he frowns. "Uh. Iron Man."

Iron Man is sitting on the edge of his seat, somehow tense. He makes a quiet, scratchy noise, like the needle jumping on a record.

They don't really have records anymore, do they? But they still have fancy cars, and here Steve is, a nobody from the Lower East Side, being treated with far more class than he has ever been accustomed to.

The car pulls away from the curb, and after a few seconds Iron Man settles back into his seat like he's been here before a thousand times. Steve admires his confidence.

Mr. Hogan presses a button, and a glass partition slides up to separate the front of the car from the back. He must have done this a hundred times before for Mr. Stark. Probably never for Iron Man. Definitely never for Steve. It's all just-- just so _much_.

Iron Man seems to notice the fraying state of Steve's nerves; beneath the mask, his blue eyes widen in concern. "Cap?" he asks. "You all right there? You look a little... overwhelmed."

That's one word for it.

"I didn't know you'd be... doing all this," Steve says, gesturing vaguely around him. "I didn't expect-- doesn't Mr. Stark need a driver? How did you talk him into this?"

His mind sketches out the scene. That must have been awful for Mr. Stark, if Iron Man came to him asking for help dating a man who'd rejected him. And just because Steve turned the fella down, that doesn't mean he wanted him to suffer for it. Heck, in a different world, in a world where Steve hadn't met Iron Man first, he'd have taken Mr. Stark up on his offer, because it isn't like the man isn't... compelling. He just isn't Iron Man.

He wonders if Iron Man knows about that. About the rejection. If he and Mr. Stark talked about it. Steve's gotten the impression, from things Iron Man has let slip here and there, that Iron Man knows a lot about the guy. That they're close. But this is personal. It could be different.

He just doesn't want anyone to get hurt, and he knows he already hurt Mr. Stark. And he certainly doesn't want to compound that by kicking him when he's down, so to speak.

As if he feels as awkward as Steve does, Iron Man clears his throat in a burst of static. "I, uh," he says. "I didn't have to ask. He offered." He pauses, delicately. "He-- he wished us well." There's another fuzzy sound, maybe a laugh. "Wished me better luck than he had with you, actually."

Okay, so Iron Man definitely knows about Mr. Stark's offer. And that's good, Steve supposes, that Mr. Stark doesn't bear him any ill-will over it. He was so kind. Steve wants him to be happy too. He'll find someone. Steve's certain of that. Surely anyone would want him.

But he doesn't want to think about Mr. Stark now. Not when he's right here with Iron Man.

Steve smiles at Iron Man, hoping to put him at ease. It's hard to tell with the armor, but he thinks Iron Man is a little more relaxed. "Well," Steve says, "here I am with you, so it looks like you're doing better than him already, huh?"

Iron Man laughs another small laugh, a little blip of static. "I guess so."

"So," Steve says. "Going to tell me where we're going, Shellhead? Or what we're seeing?"

Iron Man's eyes sparkle behind the mask, and Steve imagines that, underneath it, Iron Man is smiling. "Nope," he says, cheerfully. "It's a mystery."

_Much like so many things about you_ , Steve doesn't say.

It doesn't matter who Iron Man is. It really doesn't, he tells himself. Iron Man is his teammate and they like each other and they're here enjoying each other's company. What more does Steve need to know? Steve himself has a secret identity, after all. No one knows who Captain America is, except the few people he's told -- and Iron Man happens to be on that very short list. It would be hypocritical to object to Iron Man also keeping a secret identity. If he wants to tell Steve, he'll tell him. It's not a problem.

Steve leans back and considers Iron Man. Iron Man's got beautiful eyes, of course -- but it's not like the rest of him isn't gorgeous. He doesn't know if Mr. Stark intended to show his bodyguard off by designing armor like this, but the golden metal mesh of the armor clings to Iron Man's arms and legs and he's-- well, he's definitely well-built. It's impossible not to notice; it's practically painted on his muscles. No one could ever actually mistake him for a robot. Steve's never considered himself the kind of man who cares overmuch about this sort of thing, but, well, it's nice that Iron Man is handsome. The kind of nice that makes him feel warm all over. The kind of nice he probably shouldn't be thinking about in public.

Iron Man catches him looking, and Steve can feel his face flush.

"Something I can do for you, Cap?"

Momentarily tongue-tied, Steve shakes his head. "Just-- just looking," he manages to say.

And then Iron Man puts out a hand, palm up, the repulsor glassy and dim. "You could," Iron Man begins, and he sounds as nervous as Steve feels, now. "You could touch, if you wanted."

"Oh," Steve says, softly, amazed. He hadn't thought--

He reaches out, his fingers trembling, and he brushes the metal of Iron Man's gauntlet, his own gloved fingertips sliding along the grooved striations, red leather on red metal. He knows Iron Man can't feel it, but Iron Man is looking down at their joined hands, in awe. That's exactly how Steve feels about it.

This, Steve thinks, is going to be good.

They hold hands the whole way.

* * *

The theater's in the Village, and when they get out -- and Iron Man lets him go -- Steve is so distracted remembering the feel of Iron Man's hand in his that he entirely forgets to check the marquee to even see what movie it is, and then he stops dead in the auditorium, staring around in wonder.

Iron Man has brought him to a _proper_ movie theater. 

The ceiling is high, vaulted, and there's an elegant chandelier, and Steve feels himself relax at last, a strung wire unwinding that he hadn't known was this taut, deep within him. It's not that he wants to go back to the past, because he loves living in the future with every fiber of his being, but it's so good to know that there are still places like this, that nothing is all the way gone.

How had Iron Man known?

Iron Man glances over at him as they take their seats, and even though Steve can't see his face, he knows Iron Man is smiling.

"Your kind of place, huh?" Iron Man asks, softly.

Steve has to ask the question. "How did you know?"

"I didn't." Iron Man's laugh now is softer static. "I guessed. When I thought of it, I figured I had about a fifty-fifty shot at making you either really happy or really sad, but then I realized that you never actually seemed to enjoy team trips to the movies and adjusted the odds."

Impressed, Steve grins back at him. "Well, congratulations, because you sure nailed it. This is wonderful. Not that I remember this place."

Iron Man's eyes are even more dazzling than the chandelier above them. "Maybe you wouldn't. I did some research. It started out as the Yiddish Art Theater, for plays. It was a movie theater for a few years back in your day but I worked out that you were probably in the Army by then, or close enough. And then it was a regular theater again, and now it's a cinema again. Shows a lot of arthouse films."

He can't quite believe that Iron Man has really gone to all this effort just for _him._ Iron Man did actual _research_. And here Steve is the one who asked him out in the first place -- but Iron Man is the one taking him on a date.

He supposes that if you're dating a fella who lives his life in armor, you can't exactly expect any of it to be normal. It doesn't bother Steve, anyhow. It isn't like a lot of things about him are normal either.

"Arthouse?" Steve asks. 

That's another new word. One of the things he likes about Iron Man is that he's careful with his words, trying not to use too many words Steve doesn't know. He always tells Steve what they mean if he asks, and he never makes fun of him for not knowing.

"Oh!" Iron Man says, and his helmeted head tips down briefly in shame. "Sorry. Uh. Independent films, foreign films, experimental films. Stuff that's meant to be art, for whatever definition you'd like to use. Not Hollywood movies."

And now Steve is actually, truly touched, because on top of everything, Iron Man remembered that Steve used to be an artist. Steve likes art. Iron Man thought about exactly what he might like to do and picked something just for him.

"That sounds swell," Steve says, and he can't stop smiling, and when Iron Man looks back at him, almost shyly, the edges of his eyes are crinkled like he's smiling too. He must be. " _Now_ are you going to tell me what it is we're seeing? I missed the sign on the way in."

Iron Man makes a louder staticky noise, maybe a cough. "Um," he says. "I have to confess that this one was a bit of a selfish pick. Also, you might have already seen it."

_What?_

Before Steve can ask another question, the lights dim.

Music starts with an orchestral flourish, and the screen displays an epigram, huge white words in a black void: THE MEDIATOR BETWEEN BRAIN AND HANDS MUST BE THE HEART!

It's a nice sentiment. Steve approves highly. It also seems vaguely familiar.

And then the credits come up and he has to choke back delighted laughter. It's _Metropolis_. Fritz Lang's _Metropolis_. It's some kind of extended and restored version with new scenes -- one of the things Steve does love about the future is that so many little things like that are better now -- but it's still the same movie that came out when he was a kid.

Of _course_. Of course Iron Man would find him a movie about a robot.

Iron Man's faceplate gleams golden in the dim theater, and Steve realizes Iron Man is watching him rather than the film. He's probably trying to figure out what Steve thinks of his choice.

Steve smiles at him. "It's perfect," he says, softly, and he means _you're perfect_.

As the film starts, this time Steve is the one who reaches out and takes Iron Man's hand.

* * *

Steve stands on the sidewalk outside the mansion gate, watching as Iron Man braces one gauntleted hand on the car door that Steve just exited from and leans in to talk to Mr. Hogan.

"Thanks for the lift, Happy!" Iron Man says. "See you tomorrow morning."

"Sure thing," Mr. Hogan says.

Steve supposes that Mr. Stark needs his driver and his bodyguard at Stark Industries tomorrow. It makes sense; he's a busy man. Still, it doesn't mean that Steve, imperfect and human as he is, doesn't feel the slightest twinge of jealousy: he wants to spend as much time with Iron Man as he possibly can.

The date was perfect. The film was great, as always, and they spent the whole ride chatting about the differences between the version Steve had seen so long ago and the one now -- and, of course, about Iron Man's fondness for the robot.

Steve had always thought the robot was beautiful too. It's not like his feelings for Iron Man came out of nowhere, after all. But he's also pretty sure that his level of aesthetic appreciation for Iron Man's armor is not proper conversational territory for a first date, unless the future has changed a lot.

They forwent the cliché dinner-after-the-movie, which Steve was fine with, because it didn't seem fair for him to eat when Iron Man could only sip a drink through a straw.

And now they're here, and the date's over.

But maybe, Steve thinks, maybe it doesn't have to stop being over.

After the car pulls away from the curb, Iron Man's standing there and it's clear he's at a loss for words. Iron Man doesn't live in the mansion -- where he does live is another one of those things no one knows about him -- and it's getting late, so he doesn't really have an excuse to stay.

Unless, of course, Steve gives him one.

"So," Steve says, and he smiles, and he hopes he doesn't sound anywhere near as nervous as he feels. He wants this to go right. He doesn't want to presume too much. He wants Iron Man to like him as much as he likes Iron Man. "Did you want to be a gentleman and walk me to my door?"

There's a pause, then; the words seem to hang between them in the air, echoing, pounding through Steve's head. He was right, he was right, he was so right and it's all wrong. Iron Man was just humoring him. Iron Man didn't have a good time. It's like being sixteen and scrawny again and knowing that no one is ever really going to like him back--

Iron Man's eyes are bright, and he laughs another static laugh. "It's so kind of you to assume I'm a gentleman, Winghead." And he steps just a little closer. It's enough.

That's a yes. Oh, God. Iron Man _likes him back_. Steve can't stop grinning.

"Oh," Steve says, trying for an innocent tone, "then you're _not_ my knight in shining armor?"

The noise Iron Man makes sounds sort of like a splutter, and then he looks away.

"I know you can't see my face, Cap," he says, quietly, haltingly, "but trust me when I say I'm blushing."

If it means that much to Iron Man that Steve compliments him, that's definitely a good sign, he thinks, and then, out of nowhere, the thought hits him:

_I wish I could see your face._

It feels almost like a betrayal even to think it. He shouldn't want to, because obviously Iron Man doesn't want anyone to know who he is, and a good man, a just man, should feel the same way as Iron Man does. He should want what Iron Man wants. It's disrespectful not to.

But it's not that he wants to know who Iron Man is. And it's not like he'd recognize Iron Man if Iron Man took off the helmet. He just wants... to see his face. To see his smile. To see more of him than just his eyes. To touch him, skin to skin.

He takes a shaking breath and tries to push that thought away.

"Okay," Iron Man says, his voice clouded with confusion, "now _you're_ blushing. Everything okay?" He pauses. "Did I say something wrong? Was that too much?"

_It wasn't enough._ He can't say that.

"No!" he says, hastily, and Iron Man wobbles in his suit like he instinctively tried to step backwards and didn't make it. Steve is aware that, under his gloves, his palms are sweating. "I mean, no, definitely not," he says, softer now. God, he's so nervous that Iron Man's going to think he doesn't like him. "You're great, Shellhead. You're the best. You're perfect."

And maybe that was too much, because Iron Man does step back at that, and Steve can see him blinking in wonder. "And you're too kind," he says, finally, like he's discarded several possible responses before settling on that one.

Steve wonders what else Iron Man wanted to say.

"Come on," Iron Man says. "I'll walk you to your door."

* * *

Steve can't focus on anything except Iron Man's heavy tread next to him, the sound of floorboards creaking under the weight of the suit as they walk together. Iron Man is so close. Steve could touch him. Except, of course, he can't.

They walk in silence, up the stairs, down the second floor hallway, and they come to a halt in front of Steve's door.

Steve knows he's going to start fidgeting out of sheer nerves any second. He pulls his cowl back. He pulls off his gloves and tucks them into his belt. When he looks up, he sees that Iron Man is staring at his hands like he's never seen them before, and then his face.

Steve hopes his hair isn't sticking straight up.

He knows he's shaking now; Iron Man has to be able to see it. He wonders if Iron Man's sensors can measure his heart rate, his breathing. He's never asked. There's a lot he doesn't know about Iron Man.

But he knows what he wants.

He clears his throat.

"So," he says, softly, as softly as he can, because he sure doesn't need the rest of the team overhearing this, "if you're not a gentleman, Shellhead, would you like to come inside with me?"

Iron Man's indrawn breath is so loud that the filters pick it up and blur it into even more static. "Steve," Iron Man says, sounding almost anguished. "Steve, you're wonderful, and you have no idea how much I-- but the armor doesn't-- it can't all come off-- I can't--"

Oh. Iron Man thinks Steve is getting ahead of himself. He thinks Steve is much more forward than he actually intends to be.

"Not that," Steve says, quickly. "Not on a first date."

The noise Iron Man makes could be either relief or disappointment. It's hard to say.

"Then...?"

Steve gives him his best and most hopeful smile. "I had a great time with you tonight," he says, honestly. Earnestly. He's never considered himself very capable of subterfuge, and so for him its opposite is a feature: he wants people to know where they stand with him. And he really wants Iron Man to, in particular. "I just wanted to tell you that. Uh. In a little more detail. In private."

"Well," Iron Man says, after a pause. "Now I'm intrigued."

Steve swallows hard, reaches behind himself, and opens the door. He steps backwards.

After a few agonizing seconds, Iron Man follows.

Iron Man obligingly closes the door, and Steve can't help but feel a little self-conscious as Iron Man looks around. Iron Man's never actually been in his room before. He doesn't know what kind of lifestyle Iron Man leads, where he lives -- although with his Avengers pay on top of whatever Mr. Stark is presumably paying him for his services, it's probably not too shabby at all -- but he hopes Iron Man's not judging him by the way he lives. Steve didn't have anything when the Avengers took him in, and he hasn't accumulated much: a few photos; his old footlocker, taken back from the Smithsonian; a few history books Hank and Jan gave him -- to help him settle in, Jan had said.

Iron Man's gaze pauses very significantly on the bed. Steve hasn't bothered getting different sheets since he moved in -- why, says his Depression upbringing, when the ones he has now are still good? -- so he's left with the ones Mr. Stark had outfitted the room with for him. They're very... patriotic, striped boldly in red, white, and blue.

Steve nervously runs his bare hands down his uniform, unnecessarily adjusting the gloves tucked into his waistband.

"I, uh," Steve says. "I didn't pick out the color scheme, if you were wondering. That was Mr. Stark's idea, I guess." He can feel himself grimacing. What if Iron Man thinks it's silly?

The reaction Steve gets isn't one he was expecting at all. Iron Man shudders and the armor creaks as he moves in a way it doesn't quite bend; it's like he's... flinching? 

"I can ch-- I can ask Mr. Stark to change it," he offers, hastily, as if he were the one who had done it, as if he thinks he's made some kind of mistake here. "If you'd rather have something else, I mean."

Does Iron Man really think Steve wants him to go bother Mr. Stark with a needless complaint about his bedsheets?

"No, no! You don't need to do that. Really, you don't need to bring him into it." The words are awkward in Steve's mouth, and he wonders how Iron Man isn't sick of him yet. Iron Man spends so much time around Mr. Stark, after all; surely he must expect someone more suave than Steve?

But Iron Man, on the contrary, doesn't seem impatient with him at all; he laughs another quiet hissing-static laugh. Steve can see his eyes crinkle at the corners. Steve thinks Iron Man must be smiling.

"Had enough of him, have you?" Iron Man asks, and there's a strange note in his voice.

Steve takes a deep breath. "He's nice, but... I was hoping to talk about _you_."

"Me?" Iron Man hisses out another laugh. "You're sweet, Cap. I wouldn't say I'm all that interesting, though. I'm just a guy in a tin can." 

He lifts one gauntleted hand, makes a fist, knocks it against the side of his helmet. Metal resounds, and Iron Man shakes his head and starts to lower his arm.

That's when Steve, without really thinking about it, reaches out and takes Iron Man's hand in one of his. He's never touched Iron Man with his bare hands before. The striations of the metal of his gauntlet press against Steve's questing fingertips, and Steve runs his fingers up the back of Iron Man's hand to his forearm, in mingled surprise and pleasure, because--

"You're so _warm_ ," Steve breathes. "Oh, that's lovely."

He'd been expecting cold, unyielding metal, or -- at the very best -- room-temperature, but Iron Man is pleasantly toasty. Not burning, not hot to the touch, just nicely warm. He's not quite at human-normal, but he's pretty close to it. It's-- well, it feels _good_. Steve hates the cold; he's always hated it, even before the ice, back when he never had enough meat on his bones to keep him warm. He'd been thinking in the back of his mind that a chill was something he'd just have to endure, being with Iron Man, but it looks like he doesn't have to concern himself with that at all. Iron Man is perfect.

There's a little catch in the static Iron Man makes now, like a sharply-indrawn breath. "You like that?" Iron Man says, in a voice Steve has never heard from him before, something laden with a nebulous sort of promise. What he could be promising, Steve has no idea -- but, boy, does he want to find out. Iron Man makes a little clicking noise, sounding almost shy. "The, uh. The environmental systems dump a lot of waste heat through the outer layer of the suit. I-- I mean, Mr. Stark originally had a design that was more vented, but it added too much bulk."

"I love it," Steve says, fervently. "You feel so nice. And you're plenty interesting, as far as I'm concerned."

His fingertips travel past the edge of the gauntlet, onto the golden metal that covers Iron Man's arm. Steve wasn't expecting it to feel any different, but it does; the metal curves, molded to Iron Man's skin, and all Steve can think is that he's almost touching Iron Man.

Iron Man's voice crackles. "Flatterer."

"No," Steve insists. "It's true."

Iron Man blinks at him, his eyes sparkling sapphire as the lamplight catches them, and he hums for a second, a startlingly clear and pure tone, like he's thinking. "So," he prompts. "Something you wanted to tell me in private, Winghead?"

Steve takes another shaky breath. He can be brave. He can say this.

"I just-- I wanted to kiss you goodnight."

For a few seconds, Iron Man doesn't say anything. Steve can measure the time by the beats of his anxious heart. He wonders if Iron Man can read his heart rate by looking at him.

"Steve." Iron Man's voice is sad again, trembling even through the vocal filters, and Steve's heart starts to sink. "Steve, I-- I can't-- my identity-- my-- my _face_ \--"

Oh. Another miscommunication. Iron Man thought he was asking for-- well. Steve puts all thoughts of that out of his mind. Iron Man's identity is obviously his own. Steve isn't going to pry.

"Not that, either," he says, as softly as he can, and then he dares more. "Just this."

And then he leans up and in, rocking onto his tiptoes, and presses a kiss to the cheek of Iron Man's faceplate. Like the rest of him, the metal is warm, smooth against his lips, and Steve pulls back a little, staring at his own reflection in the mirrored surface, distorted and golden.

Iron Man doesn't move. Iron Man says nothing.

Words crowd Steve's mouth, too many for him to say any of them, and he can feel his palms start to sweat. It was too much. Steve came on too strong. That has to be what's gone wrong here.

"I'm sorry," Steve says, lowering his gaze, stepping back--

And Iron Man takes hold of his arm, his gauntleted hand so carefully gentle as he cradles Steve's arm with only the barest suggestion of pressure.

"Don't be," Iron Man says, the words full of heartfelt intensity, and Steve can see a flash of teeth behind the mouth slit that might be a smile. "Don't you dare be sorry. That was wonderful. I just-- I just--" He sighs. "I shouldn't ask this -- God, I'm just going to-- it's just going to make it worse--" He pauses, clearly torn. "Would you do something for me? You don't-- you don't have to."

Steve doesn't even need to think about it. "Anything."

"Then close your eyes."

Steve does.

"Keep them closed."

He doesn't know what he's expecting, and at first he doesn't even understand what's going on. He hears the faint tapping of metal against metal, then a heavier clunking sound, then a hiss of air, like a valve releasing. Metal scrapes again. He hopes something's not wrong with Iron Man.

"What--" he starts to ask.

But Iron Man cuts him off. "Shh," Iron Man says, and the noise is low and gentle... and one-hundred-percent human. Iron Man's not using the vocal filters anymore. This is the first time Steve's ever heard Iron Man's voice, and the realization of that shocks him into silence, stuns his mind, stops his thoughts. He can't think.

Then he feels warm air against his skin, hears the quiet sound of an exhalation, and it hits him all at once: Iron Man's not using the vocal filters because Iron Man's _not wearing the helmet_.

Iron Man puts one gauntleted hand on his shoulder and slides it, metal scraping over scale mail, to the middle of Steve's back, and he pulls him close. Steve takes one wobbling step forward, uncertain with his eyes shut, and his foot bumps what has to be one of Iron Man's boots. He opens his mouth to apologize.

And Iron Man kisses him.

Iron Man's mouth is soft and warm against his. A mustache -- Iron Man has a mustache? -- brushes ever so lightly across Steve's skin. It doesn't scratch, it doesn't even tickle, but the barely-there pressure leaves Steve wanting _more_ , makes his body ache with longing, makes him want to chase a harder, deeper sensation.

The kiss is tentative, and after barely a second or two, Iron Man pauses, and starts to draw back, like he thinks he's done something wrong, like he thinks Steve doesn't want him, and Steve can't possibly let that stand.

"Don't stop," Steve breathes, and he fumbles, eyes still shut, until his hands land in Iron Man's hair, soft and silky, and he pulls their mouths back together.

And that's when Iron Man _really_ starts kissing him.

Steve's never let his fantasies go this far before, and he thinks even if he had, there's no way he could have suspected that Iron Man would be this good. Iron Man is still holding him close with one arm; there's something bulky trapped between them, and he suspects Iron Man is also holding his helmet, but it doesn't seem to have put him at a disadvantage. Iron Man is kissing him hard and fierce, almost desperate, like no one's touched him in years and he has to make up for all the lost time right now. Maybe no one has.

Steve runs his fingers through Iron Man's hair and kisses him back; Iron Man makes a quiet little noise, a half-voiced moan of pure pleasure, and Steve can feel Iron Man shudder against him. He's nearly undone.

And then Iron Man pulls away, and Steve's hands fall through empty air. Steve nearly opens his eyes but remembers just in time. He hears another hissing click. That's probably the helmet.

"You can open your eyes now," Iron Man says. The filtering is back on, but even with his voice masked, Steve can tell how overwhelmed he sounds.

Steve opens his eyes and immediately seeks out Iron Man's gaze. Iron Man's eyes are wide, dark with desire, plain to see even through the eye-slits.

"You liked that too, huh, Shellhead?"

Steve can't help but bring one hand to his own mouth to touch his kiss-bruised lips, and he's gratified to watch Iron Man track the movement.

"I don't think _like_ really covers it," Iron Man says. "My God, Steve. You're so. So."

Iron Man is clearly out of words. Maybe they don't need that many words for this.

"So are you," Steve tells him, and he thinks Iron Man is smiling.

"That was... all right, then?" Iron Man sounds uncertain. Like he's still not sure if it was okay.

"Better than all right," Steve says. "Feel free to do that any time." He thinks about it and amends his statement. "Maybe not in the middle of battle. Any other time."

Iron Man's laugh crackles with delight. "Duly noted."

Steve takes a deep, trembling breath. He can say this. Iron Man likes him. It's okay to ask. "So," he says, "would you-- would you be interested in a second date?"

There's a few seconds of silence, and again Steve wonders if he's presumed too much.

"Are you sure?" Iron Man asks. "I mean, this--" he gestures at himself-- "is what you get."

Oh. Iron Man still thinks Steve wants something _normal_.

"I really like what I get," Steve says. Iron Man makes a soft, unreadable clicking noise. "I really do." He pauses. "Maybe you'd let me take you to a ball game, sometime."

The noise Iron Man makes now sounds almost sad, and Steve has no idea why. Does Iron Man have something against baseball? He's never seemed particularly negative about it before.

"You'd want to do that?" Incredulity is plain in Iron Man's tone. "With me?"

Steve feels like he's missed something. "Sure, why not?' He thinks about it. He tries to think of any possible objection Iron Man might have, and can only come up with one angle. "Look, I won't boo the Yankees, if that's a problem for you."

Iron Man's laugh now is a startled one, like he hadn't expected Steve to make him laugh at all. "You boo the Yankees, Winghead, and we don't make it out of the stadium alive."

"Fine," Steve allows, grinning. "I take your point. But... yes?"

He still has no idea what the problem was, but at least Iron Man is nodding now. There's a flash of a smile through the mouth-slit. "Yes," Iron Man says. "I-- I don't think I can ever say no to you, really." He sounds oddly contemplative.

Steve doesn't know what to say to that, but Iron Man interrupts his thoughts, stepping back and blowing him a kiss.

"Anyway," Iron Man says. "Much as I wish I could stay, it's past my bedtime. Have to leave before I turn into a pumpkin, and all."

Steve frowns. "Before you what?"

"Oh!" Iron Man says. "Did you never see-- no, I suppose you wouldn't have. Uh. I'll have to show you the movie sometime, I guess. Not tonight, though."

"Okay," Steve says, confused. Honestly, he's game for anything Iron Man wants to do with him. "I'll look forward to it."

Iron Man opens the door and takes another step back, putting even more distance between them. "I really do have somewhere to be right now, sorry," he says, and he presses his hand to his chest, an odd gesture. "I promise I'll see you soon."

He's gone before Steve can say anything else.

It's all right. Iron Man always has things to do. Heck, sometimes he doesn't even make team meetings. Steve's not going to pry.

Steve shuts the door and smiles quietly to himself. He can't stop smiling.

_How about that?_ he marvels. _I'm dating a robot._

He remembers Iron Man's very human lips pressed against his.

_Okay, so he's definitely not a robot._

* * *

Steve's happier than he can remember ever being.

He and Iron Man go to a ball game, sitting in the cheap seats just like Steve did when he was a kid -- though even the cheap seats are a heck of a lot nicer than they used to be. Iron Man, as promised, loans him a movie -- an animated version of _Cinderella_ , one that Steve apparently missed while he was in the ice -- and suddenly Iron Man's pumpkin reference makes much more sense. He hadn't remembered all the little details of the story, other than the slipper.

Guiltily, Steve spends the next few days thinking about just how much his life is like a fairytale. He furtively glances at all the men he passes on the street, wondering if any of them are Iron Man, if he would know him if he saw him. He can't very well walk up to anyone with one of Iron Man's boots, after all.

He shouldn't want to know. He doesn't need to know. But that doesn't stop him from being curious, just a little. But he knows Iron Man won't tell him, and he's fine with that. He is. Iron Man's privacy is important.

Iron Man can't spend as much time with Steve as Steve would like. In an ideal world, he'd be at Steve's side all day every day -- and while Steve is mature enough to acknowledge that this is only a fantasy, he does wish he got to see Iron Man a little more. Unlike the rest of the Avengers, Iron Man doesn't even have a room at the mansion. And, unlike the rest of the Avengers, Iron Man has a day job. He always has to play bodyguard to Mr. Stark, who is, of course, very busy.

Sometimes Steve wonders about that. It can't be that Iron Man _needs_ a second job, can he? The pay for active Avengers is generous enough that Steve comes nowhere close to spending it all, and he still wouldn't even if -- like Iron Man -- he had to pay for his own room and board elsewhere. Maybe Iron Man really does need the money. It's not Steve's business, not if Iron Man doesn't make it his business.

So Steve hasn't asked Iron Man, and he wouldn't dare ask Mr. Stark. Iron Man clearly must feel that Mr. Stark's safety is important enough to him that it's worth protecting him personally. That's an attitude Steve can respect. He definitely understands and approves of the impulse to do good in the world; it's why they're superheroes, after all. He just wishes he had more time with Iron Man.

Even when Iron Man's available, he's never available continuously. Steve always figured he'd be the one with the annoyingly early bedtime, but every night he sees Iron Man, Iron Man always has to excuse himself, and he never actually gives excuses. Steve's wondered if it's some kind of medical problem, but surely anyone who spends his day in a suit of armor, fighting supervillains, would be in perfect health. He knows it's not his place to ask about that, either. Iron Man's good enough to fight with the Avengers, and that's all that should concern Steve. If Iron Man wants to tell him, he'll tell him. Steve understands. Iron Man values his privacy.

And even so, even with all these setbacks to work around, being with Iron Man is still _wonderful_.

Iron Man makes him so very happy. Being with him is just so... easy. Steve knows that wouldn't be a lot of people's first thought when it comes to dating a fella in a metal suit, but it's not about that. Iron Man makes him laugh. Iron Man makes him smile. Iron Man is the best partner he's ever had; on the battlefield, they move like they're two halves of one person. Iron Man always knows where he is, and he's there to catch Steve if he falls -- and that's not even metaphorical.

And it's in the midst of one such battle, a few weeks after they start dating, that the rest of the Avengers find out about them.

Because Baron Zemo just doesn't know when to quit, they're fighting the Masters of Evil. Again.

It should have been routine. It _is_ routine. And maybe that's why they get... complacent. Iron Man is in the air, tangling with the Black Knight, repulsor rays lashing either side of his opponent's flying horse, trying to draw him toward Hank and Thor, who will make short work of him. The Black Knight, for all his fearsomeness, can't fight at range, and that's where Iron Man excels. Steve avoids a blast from the Melter -- he doesn't know if the Melter can ruin vibranium, and he sure as heck doesn't want to find out -- as he squints up at the swirling figures in the skies. Iron Man keeps spiraling away, just out of his enemy's range--

And then the Black Knight's lance hits him in the throat. Hard.

There's a horrible scratching noise over the comms, a noise that stutters between mechanical static and harsh, human breaths, and Steve realizes the vocal filters in the armor are failing. And then Iron Man flips end-over-end, through the air, one hand splayed across his neck, repulsors flickering, and that's when Steve figures out that a whole lot of the armor's systems are failing.

"Shellhead!" he yells over the comms. "No!"

Iron Man falls.

It's not graceful; the suit's not aerodynamic enough for grace, not like this. He's falling like what he is, a man wrapped in a few hundred pounds of solid metal, and he's at least a hundred feet in the air.

Steve runs, following the path of Iron Man's trajectory, even as he knows he can't do anything to help. It's not like he can catch him. Even Steve would be flattened if he tried.

About ten feet up, two of the repulsors flicker on and -- oh, thank God -- _hold_ , their lights glowing steadily, and it's not much but it's enough. Steve watches, his heart in his throat, as Iron Man hits the ground, tips, lands on his back, and skids to a stop. In a few more seconds, Steve is at his side.

He flings his shield in the air, hears it collide with the Black Knight, and doesn't bother looking up. He just holds out his hand to catch it on the rebound and kneels next to Iron Man as he slings the shield onto his back, his fingers reflexively intertwining with the unyielding metal of Iron Man's gauntlet.

"Shellhead," Steve gasps. He feels like he's the one who can't breathe. "Shellhead, please, say something!"

Steve's other hand -- the one that isn't desperately clutching Iron Man's -- roves over the plates of the armor, looking for locks, releases, _anything_ \--

Iron Man crackles and coughs. "Don't," he breathes, his voice so close to human and yet so distorted by the intermittent filter that Steve can barely make out what he's saying. "Steve, no, _don't_ , you can't-- you can't take the armor off, please--"

Iron Man raises his free hand to try to stop him. The gauntlet is dented and scraped, the repulsor still dim.

Steve sees blood dripping on the other side of the eye-slits, sliding down past the inside corner of one of Iron Man's eyes, like macabre tears; Iron Man's eyes are closed as he wheezes, gasping for air. How can Iron Man's identity matter more than his life?

"Shellhead, you can't _breathe_ \--"

"You can't-- if you-- if you take the armor off, I _die_ ," Iron Man forces out.

Stunned into silence, into inaction, Steve's hands freeze. He didn't know. He never suspected. He'd never wanted to pry. He just assumed it was another one of those things Iron Man was private about, a way to disguise his identity, but the armor is keeping him _alive_?

Steve wants to hold him, to cradle him close and tell him he'll keep him safe, tell him he'll do everything he can. He thinks now is probably not the time for that.

And then he jumps and jerks his hands away as the comm crackles. "Cap," Hank asks. "Everything okay?"

Iron Man answers before Steve can. "Fine," he rasps. "I just need to-- to--"

"I'll get Iron Man out of the way," Steve promises Hank. "He went down hard, but he's still breathing."

"Fear not!" Thor says, as always a touch too loud on the comms. "We shall vanquish these foes in thy stead, Iron Man!"

Translation: the rest of the team has it covered.

So Steve picks up Iron Man -- he's not too heavy for Steve, of course -- and carries him out of the way of the fight, as Iron Man tries to open his eyes, tries to blink away the rivulets of blood.

"Better keep your eyes shut, Shellhead," Steve says, as he settles them both down against a nearby wall, Iron Man's head in his lap. "You can take the mask off later and clean your face. When I'm not here, I mean. I won't pry. I just want you to be okay."

There's the faintest trace of a smile behind the darkness of the mouth-slit. "You're better than I deserve," he says, and Steve doesn't know what to say to that.

* * *

Iron Man, of course, isn't at the debriefing, and Steve hopes to God that means he's getting medical care somewhere. He hopes someone who knows about the armor -- there has to be someone else who knows -- can help him. Maybe Mr. Stark is helping him right now, Steve thinks, hopefully. Mr. Stark designed the armor. He has to be able to fix it. To save Iron Man.

The debriefing itself is mercifully brief, and Steve is on edge the entire time; he needs to find out if Iron Man is all right.

But when the meeting is finally adjourned, Jan grabs his arm before he can leave, and as Hank and Thor file out, it's just the two of them left.

"Wasp?" he asks. He can't really focus on anything; all his thoughts are with Iron Man.

Jan bites her lip. "I just... had a question," she says. "You don't have to answer it. I was just wondering."

"Yes?"

"You and Iron Man," she says, and she doesn't finish the question, but it's enough.

Something twisted and awful knots up under Steve's breastbone. The internet had said it was okay now, liking men. Mr. Stark had certainly not hesitated to ask him out, after all. And Iron Man, though he'd obviously been surprised that Steve had asked, hadn't been appalled or disgusted or anything like that. But what if that's not true for everyone? What if the rest of the team thinks there's something wrong with the two of them going steady?

No, Steve tells himself, and he straightens up. He can't think like that. It's not wrong and it's not going to be wrong and he needs to stand by his beliefs. He can be brave for this. It's important.

"Yeah," Steve says, finally. "Me and Iron Man." Because what else is there to say, really? "We're together."

And Jan... smiles. "I'm so happy for you," she says, and Steve breathes out in relief. "I suspected, the way you were fretting over him today. But that's so wonderful."

"It is," Steve says. "It really is."

"You should go find him," Jan says. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to keep you. Of course you want to go check on him."

"I don't know where he is," Steve admits.

Jan waves her free hand. "You should ask Tony," she says. The intimacy of the name is notable; she's the only one of them who knows Mr. Stark well enough to use it, the only one of them who would presume to call him _Tony_. "He'll know."

Steve nods. "I'll do that."

Jan lets him go, then, but when he's in the doorway she calls out. "Steve?"

Steve turns around. "Yes?"

"Can I tell people?" she asks, and then smiles ruefully and clarifies. "Not everyone. Not the whole world. Just the rest of the team."

Steve smiles back. "Of course."

* * *

Mr. Stark doesn't answer Steve's messages. Neither does Iron Man -- at least until the next morning, when Steve gets a text message that just says, _I'm fine, Winghead. Don't worry about me._

It's not exactly reassuring.

When Steve heads downstairs for breakfast, Iron Man's not there -- but Mr. Stark is.

Mr. Stark's not wearing his usual three-piece suit. He's not smiling his usual devilishly-handsome smile while attentively reading the morning's business news on his tablet. No, Mr. Stark is wearing sandals, ragged jeans, and a MIT sweatshirt covered with what Steve guesses are oil stains. He's half-slumped in his chair, and he's forcing oatmeal into his mouth, slowly, like summoning up the energy for every bite is a near-insurmountable ordeal.

He turns, and he has a bandage on his forehead. He's also wearing a hell of a lot of concealer; he hasn't quite blended it properly with his skin, and Steve can see the hint of a bruise still lingering on his cheekbone.

When he sets his spoon down, Steve sees another bandage wrapped around his hand. He has long, elegant fingers, covered in a fine tracery of scars. Some of the cuts and burns look newer than the rest. He's the only rich guy Steve has ever known who works with his hands.

He regards Steve with hollow, exhausted eyes, and he manages a flicker of a smile. "Good morning, Captain."

Steve's nebulous concern for Iron Man evaporates, replaced by sympathy for the man in front of him right now, with his inexplicable and mysterious condition. What in God's name has happened to Mr. Stark?

"Mr. Stark!" Steve says, and he nearly reaches out for him before he remembers that Mr. Stark doesn't like to be touched. "What's wrong?"

"Oh, nothing," Mr. Stark says, quickly, with another flash of a smile, this one a little self-deprecating. "Workshop accident. That'll teach me not to wear proper safety gear. Had to patch up Iron Man's armor, you know."

Mr. Stark had gotten hurt fixing Iron Man. Then the sentence clicks into Steve's brain. He'd gotten _hurt_ fixing Iron Man. Because of the Avengers. Because of _him_. Oh, no.

Distraught and guilty, Steve just stares, and after several seconds he recovers enough to stumble through an apology. "Mr. Stark, I'm so sorry! Speaking for the team, sir, I sincerely regret that the Avengers in any way endangered you--"

But Mr. Stark waves him away. There's another bandage on the back of his hand. "It's all right. It was an accident. Nothing to do with you." He smiles again, a strange, haunted half-smile. "Besides, Iron Man is more important than me, any day of the week."

And then Steve remembers Iron Man, and the rest of his concerns come rushing back. "Iron Man, is he--?" Steve asks, and the words catch in his throat, as if giving voice to his fears would somehow make them exist, would doom Iron Man.

"Oh, he's fine," Mr. Stark says. The same thing Iron Man had said. "A little banged-up, but no permanent damage. Just some cuts and bruises. I patched him up too, before I started working on the suit. Don't worry about him." 

_Don't worry._ Iron Man had said that, too. But surely it's understandable if Steve's worried about his--- about his _fella_ , isn't it?

Steve frowns. "He couldn't go to a doctor?" Wouldn't Mr. Stark want his own bodyguard to have the best care money could buy?

Mr. Stark grimaces, and Steve doesn't understand why. "No," he says, more quietly. "No, it... wasn't possible."

At first Steve is confused, but then he realizes he can make a pretty good guess about that, now. "Because Iron Man needs the armor to live. And the doctors don't know it exists, do they?"

If Iron Man can't take the armor off, then anyone who sees him so much as shirtless in his civilian identity will instantly know his secret one. Steve supposes Iron Man must wear some awfully baggy clothing. But, knowing how concerned Iron Man is about his secret identity, Steve can imagine that Iron Man doesn't want to risk exposure -- even if, for the sake of Iron Man's health, Steve wishes he would.

Mr. Stark sighs. His face is slack with exhaustion and an emotion that Steve almost wants to call regret; his eyes are dull, his gaze far away. "He told you."

The way Mr. Stark says it, it's not a question. And that means he knows. He knows what happened in the field because Iron Man told him. Because Iron Man must tell him everything.

"Yeah." Steve nods. "He told me about the armor." He pauses. "I don't think he wanted to, honestly, but I'm really glad he did."

Strangely, Mr. Stark's eyes widen in surprise, as if that was the last possible reaction he'd expected from Steve. "Glad?" he repeats. His voice is high, infused with a degree of emotion that Steve can't quite comprehend. Why is this so important to him? And why _shouldn't_ Steve be glad? He could have _killed_ Iron Man if Iron Man hadn't told him in time. He's incredibly grateful for the information.

"Well, yeah," Steve says, confused. "Of course I'm glad. If he hadn't told me, I would have tried to take his armor off, and, well--"

He can't make himself say it, but he doesn't need to.

Mr. Stark winces; clearly he finally understands Steve's concern. He pauses. He licks his lips. "He wouldn't have died, you know," he says.

He says it softly, hesitantly. Like he's giving up a secret, and maybe he is. One of Iron Man's secrets. A secret Steve would never have presumed to demand from him. But here Mr. Stark is, giving it all away. Invading Iron Man's privacy.

How can he possibly do this?

"There's a... grace period," Mr. Stark says. "At least a few minutes. Removing the armor isn't instantly fatal. You wouldn't have killed him. You'd have noticed something was wrong and been able to put the armor back." There's a fierceness in his gaze. "St-- Captain. Please don't think you would have killed him. Don't blame yourself. It's not your fault that he's-- that he's-- _crippled_."

Mr. Stark's mouth twists, almost with loathing, as it shapes the ugly word. _Crippled_. 

He can't really think that about Iron Man, can he?

In Steve's mind, his childhood bullies corner him in an alley, stand over his weak, sickly body.

What would Mr. Stark have thought of _him_?

"He's _not_ ," Steve says, maybe a little too harshly, because Mr. Stark flinches in response. "He's an Avenger, just like the rest of us. Sure, I wish he'd told me before now about his health -- but that doesn't change anything. He's clearly perfectly capable of fighting alongside the team. As team chair, I can't ask for anything more."

Then Mr. Stark looks him straight in the eye. "What about as his boyfriend?"

"What?"

Steve is staring again, dumbfounded. He hadn't thought Iron Man talked to Mr. Stark about him. He knows they must have talked a bit; Mr. Stark had loaned Iron Man the services of his chauffeur for their first date, after all. So of course Mr. Stark knows. But that fact isn't something Steve's thought a lot about. Until now.

"Yeah." A dark, tension-filled undercurrent ripples through Mr. Stark's voice, a warning, but his eyes are terrifyingly blank, like the inside of his head is a thousand miles away. This isn't good. This isn't nice. They don't even _know_ each other. "Yeah, Iron Man keeps me updated on you two. And you-- you have to know he can't be what you want. You're a smart man, Captain. You must know that."

_What the hell would you know about what I want?_

Steve bites back the reply before it snaps out of his mouth. He takes a breath. He counts to three. "That's where you're wrong, Mr. Stark," he says, as calmly as possible. "Iron Man is exactly what I want."

"You don't know him," Mr. Stark says. His voice is hard. Cold. "You _can't_ know him. Are you telling me you're really okay with that?"

Why in the world does Mr. Stark care so much about this? And why is he so wrong?

"Of course I know him!" Steve retorts. "I know everything I need to know about him. And I care about him."

Mr. Stark's smile is crooked. "You wouldn't say that if you knew everything about him, Captain."

Steve can feel his own face heat, and it takes conscious effort to prevent himself from stepping forward, fists clenched. He holds himself still. He'a never been a bully, and he's certainly not going to start now.

He takes another careful, measured breath. "I would. I absolutely would, and frankly I don't understand why you're trying to dissuade me."

As if he's enjoying his own private joke, Mr. Stark huffs out the smallest of laughs, a voiceless exhalation, and he smiles a strange, sad smile. "No, you wouldn't understand," he murmurs. "I didn't really think you would. But I had to try."

Steve has no idea what's going on. "I respect Iron Man's privacy," he says, bewildered; maybe if he explains this, if he explains how he feels, Mr. Stark will see the truth. He's not going to hurt Iron Man. He's not going to demand anything from him. "I don't need to know everything about him. He doesn't have to tell me anything he doesn't want to tell me. I know everything about him that's really important."

Mr. Stark snorts in derision. "You'll never be able to touch him, you know. How can you settle for that?"

"It's not _settling_ ," Steve snaps, far too loudly. "Not that it's any of your business, but we make do just fine. I'd rather be with him than anyone else."

There's silence between them, then, like Mr. Stark is considering and discarding a dozen different things to say.

"Fine," he says, in a tone that strongly suggests that the conversation has now ended. It's probably how he addresses the Stark Industries board. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

Steve steps back. He tugs his mail shirt down, just to give himself something to do with his hands that's not _start a fight_. "I won't." He can practically hear his jaw grinding. "I'll see you later, Mr. Stark."

He retreats to the hallway before he can do anything particularly ill-advised.

_What in the world was_ that _all about?_

* * *

It's a long day -- and the bizarre conversation with Mr. Stark certainly didn't help matters -- but Iron Man shows up at Steve's door that evening, and that instantly makes the rest of this terrible day worth it.

Steve has long since learned to recognize the distinctively heavy, clanking sounds of Iron Man's footsteps in the hallway; no one else sounds like they're wearing an entire suit of armor, after all.

Eager, he opens the door before Iron Man even knocks; Steve catches him in the act, one gauntleted fist raised in the air.

"Oh!" Iron Man blurts out. His filtered voice is laden with surprise. "Uh. Hi."

The ordinary assumption is that it's difficult to tell what Iron Man's feeling. Steve doesn't know if that's an image Iron Man has deliberately tried to cultivate, or if it's one he thinks he's successfully presenting -- but the thing is, Steve's never really had a hard time with that. He wonders sometimes if the gifts the serum gave him, the enhanced senses, let him read Iron Man's voice and body language in ways even Steve himself isn't consciously aware of. Maybe it's something like how Steve always knows what Iron Man is going to do on the battlefield.

And Steve knows this, as sure as anything: Iron Man doesn't think he's welcome here tonight.

He can't think of any reason in the world why Iron Man should feel like that, but it's as plain as day, in the crackle of Iron Man's voice, in the hesitant way Iron Man holds himself even in armor as he takes the smallest step backward, in the fact that he's still standing in the hallway like the threshold is a no-man's-land.

"Hey, Shellhead?" Steve offers, as gently as he can, because he doesn't know what else to do except be kind, and hope that's what Iron Man needs from him. "You want to come in? Door's always open for you."

A fraction of a second slower than he should be, Iron Man steps inside.

"You sure you want to make that offer?" Iron Man asks. "You never know. I could be a vampire."

Something about the joke is forced. Steve knows Iron Man likes to make him laugh, but the way he says it -- it sounds like he thinks Steve really _shouldn't_ make an offer like that. That Steve shouldn't actually trust him.

Steve doesn't know what to do with that except be here for him. He can show Iron Man that he can trust him. So that's what he's got to do.

"Not a problem," Steve says, because, after all, he has fought Baron Blood. "That's why my uniform's got neck armor." Not that he's wearing the uniform right now. His pajamas do have little stars on them, though.

Iron Man pauses and his head jerks up; he clearly wasn't expecting that response. "You're kidding."

"Would I lie to you, Shellhead?"

"No," Iron Man says, and that damned sadness is creeping back into his voice again. "You wouldn't. You're a good man."

Steve frowns as he pushes the door shut behind Iron Man, then steps back and takes one of Iron Man's gauntleted hands between his own. The metal is still warm, once again. He thinks he'll be delighted by that forever.

"So," Steve ventures. He can hardly see Iron Man's eyes, tonight; they're shadowed in the depths of the mask. "You want to tell me what's wrong?"

The inhalation is a little sharper than the armor's vocal filtering can cover; the sound is more human than Iron Man usually lets slip. There's a flicker of motion as Iron Man's eyes fall shut behind the mask, and Iron Man stands there, statue-still, for several seconds. Steve waits.

Iron Man's voice is almost too quiet to hear, nearly lost in the mechanical crackle. "If I said I didn't want to, would that be okay with you?"

Steve meant what he said to Mr. Stark: Iron Man doesn't have to tell him anything he doesn't want to. He's not going to pry. Iron Man's secrets are his own. Iron Man is here, and that's enough for him.

He thinks Iron Man might feel better if he did talk about it, but that's not Steve's decision to make. All Steve can do is work with what he has.

"It'd be fine by me," Steve says, and he can see the tension in Iron Man disappear, like a magic trick; metal creaks as he finally lets himself move. "I'm just happy you're here, Shellhead." He smiles again. "You want to come sit with me, see if you feel any better? We don't have to talk about it. I promise."

There's more than enough room for both of them on the bed, so that's where Steve sits. On another evening, it might have been an invitation to get up to something, and sometimes it has been; just because sex isn't currently a thing they're having doesn't mean that Steve can't close his eyes and let Iron Man kiss him until he can barely remember his own name.

But that's not what they're doing right now.

Iron Man sits next to him, and practically leans into him; metal presses against Steve's side. Objectively, it's not the most comfortable Steve has ever been -- but it's _Iron Man_ , and he--

He loves Iron Man.

It's the first time the thought has ever occurred to him, in these weeks of dating, in these months of knowing he had feelings for Iron Man. It's more than just liking. It's more than simple affection. It's love. That's what it is. He loves Iron Man.

Iron Man's certainly not the first person Steve's ever dated, but Steve can't recall feeling like this about Cynthia, or Betsy, or even Peggy. Oh, he'd felt deeply for all of them, of course, but it hadn't been anything like what he feels now. This is-- this is _serious_. He wants to be with Iron Man for as long as Iron Man will possibly have him. He wants this every day for as long as he lives. He knows Iron Man often feels down like this, often gets into glum moods, but Steve wants to be here when he does, right here at Iron Man's side, even for the bad times. He wants to lift him up again, if he can.

He wonders if it should be frightening, to want this-- this _permanence_ in a way he's never wanted anything else in his life. It isn't frightening at all. It feels natural. It feels right. It feels like the easiest thing in the world.

Iron Man tips his head against Steve's shoulder, and Steve wraps an arm around him and holds him tight. Iron Man can't feel him through the armor. He knows that. But in some ways, the armor is an asset -- he can hold Iron Man as tightly as he likes, with all the feeling in him, and he doesn't have to worry that he'll hurt Iron Man with his strength, because he knows he can't. Not like this.

Iron Man is silent for a long time, but he's breathing so heavily Steve can hear it through the filters, a rasp of static.

"Do you ever think that you're too good for me?" Iron Man whispers. "Because sometimes I think that. I think that a hell of a lot."

Oh.

"No," Steve says, a denial with all the vehemence he can bring to bear, and he realizes he's gripping Iron Man's arm even tighter. "No, never." His fingers slide over smooth golden metal. "Shellhead, I'm just a man. I'm not better than anybody. I'm human. Just like you. And you've never, ever done anything to make me think you're unworthy of-- of being cared for. I don't think you ever could. You deserve happiness as much as anyone. I want you to be happy. I really do. And if I can do anything to give you that... well, that's what I want."

There's a rattling, echoing laugh. "But I'm not like you." Iron Man pronounces this as if it's a settled fact, a law of the universe. "You're good and kind and honest and I'm-- I'm-- I'm a man in a mask. And some days I don't think you'd much like the man underneath it."

_Did you talk to Mr. Stark?_ Steve wants to ask. Iron Man's words sound so much like what Mr. Stark told him this morning that Steve wonders if Mr. Stark told him about their conversation. But it was a private conversation, and he can't imagine why Mr. Stark would have repeated it, because the only thing it would have accomplished would have been to insult Iron Man with Mr. Stark's apparently very low opinion of him.

That would be an immensely cruel thing to do, and Steve can't see why Mr. Stark would be that cruel to anyone, much less his trusted bodyguard.

Or maybe he would have been.

It's not like Steve knows Mr. Stark that well, after all.

Regardless, Steve's certainly not going to tell Iron Man either, not if Mr. Stark hasn't. It wouldn't bring anything good. And the last thing he wants to do is hurt the man he loves, especially now that he knows he loves him.

So Steve doesn't ask.

"I don't know why you think that the fact that you have a secret identity should be... a dealbreaker," Steve says, after some consideration. He needs to say this right. "Heck, Shellhead, _I_ have a secret identity. It doesn't bother me that you do too. And whoever you are under the mask, whatever name you answer to that isn't _Iron Man_ \-- that's _still you_. Just like Iron Man is you. All of this is you. You're not two different people. You're not magically a different person just because I've never seen the name on your birth certificate. You're still amazing and brilliant and loyal and-- and _good_ , okay? You are. So maybe I don't know your name, but I know who you are. You can't be someone you're not. Not like this. It doesn't work like that."

Iron Man's breath is loud, ragged. "You can't mean that," he says. It could be a fight, but Iron Man's not fighting, not the way he says it. He says it like he desperately wants to believe it.

"I can," Steve says, fiercely. "I do. I love you."

He hadn't quite meant to say it. Not so soon. Not like this. But that's how he is with feelings: he tries to hold them in as long as he can, to be proper and controlled, and then when he opens his mouth somehow they all slip out of him, unbidden. He feels clumsy, off-kilter.

Next to him, Iron Man has gone very still.

It occurs to Steve then that maybe Iron Man doesn't feel the same way. He'd like to think that Iron Man does, of course, but it's not like he's ever said it, either.

What if Iron Man doesn't? What if saying it was a mistake?

"It's-- it's okay if you don't--" Steve begins, hesitantly, and he knows it's a lie, and he knows he's a terrible liar, and it's not okay, it isn't okay at all, but he needs to do right by Iron Man, first and foremost. And if this is what Iron Man needs to hear, then he'll say it.

"Steve."

Iron Man cuts him off, but then for several long seconds he says nothing, and Steve can hear his trembling, shuddering breaths. Steve feels like he's standing on the edge of a cliff, looking down at the rocks below.

"You don't have to say it back," Steve says. "It's okay."

But Iron Man shakes his head. "It's not that," he says. "Steve, I-- I love you too. I've loved you for so, so long. There aren't even words for how happy you make me." He pauses. "But it's not going to last. I'm not an easy man to love. Everyone leaves me. Everyone always leaves me. And I know you think you're going to be different, but you won't be." He brings a hand up, taps the gauntlet on the middle of his chest, with a discordant clang of metal on metal. "And I have a heart condition. It's incurable." His speech now is flat, devoid of emotion. Robotic. "I don't know how long I've got left. So there's no point, really, in you loving me. All it's going to do is hurt you when I'm gone. And that's the best-case scenario."

Steve's heart soars at the thought that Iron Man returns his love, but the rest of his words are a shock of cold water. Iron Man can't really believe that, can he? He can't want to be alone, can he? He can't think that that's how things ought to be.

Less than a year ago, it was 1945 for Steve. He was in the middle of a war. And if there's one thing he's learned, it's that he shouldn't waste time. Life is fleeting. Happiness, more so.

Shifting position, Steve takes Iron Man's hand; he runs his fingers over the familiar lines of the gauntlet, up and down the back of Iron Man's hand, sideways over his palm to the dimmed repulsor.

"None of us know how long we have left," Steve says, softly. "Not you, not me, not anyone. And in a job like we've got, our lives aren't something we can take for granted. If you want to be alone, that's one thing. I know how to take no for an answer. But if you don't want to be alone -- well, I think we should make the most of what we've got. And I know who I want to be with."

Iron Man sucks in a noisy breath; his gauntleted fingers twitch like he wants to hold Steve's hand and is trying to talk himself out of it. "Yeah, but," Iron Man says. "But. Me? Really?" He shakes his head. "I just." He sighs. "It always goes wrong. I know you don't believe me, but it does."

"Well," Steve says, and he can hear the stubbornness in his own voice as he digs his heels in and carves out his territory, as he holds out optimism in both hands, free for the taking. "What if this is the time it finally goes right, huh?"

"Steve--"

"Maybe you don't think your own happiness should count," Steve continues, and he's selfish, he's so selfish, but he wants this so much. "But what about mine? You make me happy, Shellhead. You make me happier than I've ever been. Don't you want _me_ to be happy?"

Iron Man makes a small, wretched sound of distress.

"Steve." Iron Man tries again. "I-- I care about you. Of course I want you to be happy. I love you. But that doesn't mean you should feel the same way about me. Loving me _hurts_. It's going to hurt you. And I want to spare you the pain."

Steve spreads his fingers wide and puts his hand against Iron Man's, matching the length of their fingers, flattening his palm against the glassy bump of the repulsor. Iron Man could hurt him with a flick of his wrist, but he won't. Steve knows that in his soul. He thinks that's one of the reasons they understand each other. They both know how to hold back their strength, in their own way. How to be careful.

"You can't talk me out of loving you," Steve murmurs. "You can't. I'm already here. You've got me. If it hurts, then it hurts. But I don't think it will. I'm yours. For as long as you want me."

A rattling noise echoes from within Iron Man's helmet; it's another laugh. "Blank checks are dangerous, Winghead. That could be a hell of a long time."

Steve tips his head to the side and nudges the pauldron of Iron Man's armor with his cheekbone. "Yeah, see, that's exactly what I'm offering. If-- if you want that."

For a few seconds Iron Man is quiet, and then he makes a soft, wet noise. When Steve looks over, the eyes behind the mask are suspiciously luminous. Is Iron Man _crying_?

"Shellhead?" Steve wonders aloud. "Are you-- are you all right?"

Iron Man nods creakily. "Fine," he rasps. "Better than fine. I'm just-- I"m not used to--" He laughs. "Not every day someone offers you happiness, you know?"

Steve wonders what in the world Iron Man's life has been like.

It's going to be better from now on, if he has anything to say about it.

Steve leans over and kisses the faceplate. He can hear Iron Man's breath shudder to a halt, and then start again.

"I wish I could touch you," Steve says. The need is a physical ache, throbbing beneath his breastbone. It's not quite desire, it's not quite lust, not right now, but it's _something_. "I wish I could hold you."

The sound Iron Man makes this time is a falling tone, half-mechanical. "I wish you could too," he says, and he sounds like it's killing him to admit this, like he thinks the need for human contact is a weakness. "No one does, really. No one has in a long time."

"Really?"

He'd thought it was bad. This is worse than he imagined.

Iron Man laughs again. "Yeah. Nothing to be done about that, I'm afraid. The armor has to stay on. You can't touch most of my body. Even if you're willing to keep your eyes shut. That's not the problem. You can't-- _huh_."

He breaks off, his voice gone quizzical.

"I can't what?" Steve asks.

Behind the mask, Iron Man is squinting in thought. "I just had an idea."

"Oh?"

Iron Man's nod is enthusiastic. "Come by the workshop tomorrow night. I'll show you."

"Mr. Stark's workshop?"

Steve can't say as he's too thrilled about seeing Mr. Stark again, given how their last conversation went, but Iron Man wouldn't have made the offer if it weren't all right. He hopes it's going to be all right. Maybe Iron Man talked to Mr. Stark and convinced him to change his mind about them.

Iron Man just nods, like that was obviously what he meant. "Yep. That's the one."

"All right." Steve is grinning, heady with excitement, and he slides his hands over the familiar planes of Iron Man's armor, already letting himself start to dream about the man under them. "Anything else you want to do before then?"

"You're going to be the death of me," Iron Man says. The words are gentle, now, and Steve can tell he's smiling too, a broad grin in the shadows. "Close your eyes?"

Steve does. He hears the click of the helmet unlatching, and then Iron Man is kissing him, soft and sweet and perfect.

"I love you," Steve whispers against Iron Man's mouth, and he knows Iron Man can't say it back, not like this, but he feels Iron Man smile. He can feel the traces of tears on Iron Man's cheek, trickling into his mustache, and he raises his head and kisses them away.

Mr. Stark is wrong. This isn't what anyone else has, sure, but Steve wouldn't trade it for the world.

* * *

It's a good thing that no one decides to attack New York the next day, because Steve's in no condition to fight. All he can think about, with mounting, pleasantly-nervous anticipation, is what's going to happen that night: Iron Man has some kind of plan, and Steve doesn't know what it is, but he's positive that he's going to like it. It's going to involve _touching Iron Man_ , after all. Somehow.

Steve knows that people usually think of Captain America as sexless, and he's fine with that. Captain America is a symbol. An ideal. Unsullied by messy human desire. Chaste. Pure. But, underneath the cowl, Steve Rogers is only a man, and he's far from innocent. He wants Iron Man. He _wants_ Iron Man. They haven't exactly talked about it, the two of them, but surely Iron Man's figured out just how much Steve likes kissing him, even if he's never commented on the... more obvious physical signs... of Steve's enjoyment. It shouldn't be a surprise that Steve's interested in more. But he doesn't know how much more Iron Man is interested in. And if the answer is _nothing more than this_ , Steve can accept that; it's not like he only wants Iron Man for his body, after all. But it would be nice to know. Maybe they'll talk about that, tonight.

Some of the nervous anticipation is actual nerves, of course, because Mr. Stark's workshop is not exactly neutral territory, and Steve has no idea why Iron Man picked it.

He still doesn't know what he's going to say to Mr. Stark, if Mr. Stark is there too -- and why wouldn't he be? It's his workshop. Maybe Mr. Stark has to upgrade the armor. Maybe that's why Iron Man keeps disappearing, every night, in such a hurry. He did it last night, too, excusing himself fast; there hadn't been a lot of time for kissing, although Steve's honestly not sure that any amount of time could be enough. Iron Man's an incredibly good kisser.

He hopes Mr. Stark will at least give them some time alone. Steve thinks he can manage to be pleasant to him for that long. Heck, maybe Mr. Stark will even apologize for what he said about Iron Man. That would be the best possible outcome. But right now, Steve doesn't really want to see him.

He supposes he'll have to figure it out when he gets there.

Iron Man sends him a message on his identicard at ten p.m. exactly: _All ready for you. Come on down. Wear the most comfortable clothes you've got. Doesn't matter what they look like._

Steve frowns at the message. He'd been planning to just show up in his uniform -- he's gotten the impression that Iron Man likes the look of him in it -- but Iron Man wouldn't request otherwise if he didn't have a good reason.

So he grabs a worn, fuzzy pair of old sweatpants out of his dresser, peels off his uniform, and is in the process of pulling a t-shirt over his head when his identicard beeps again.

There's another message: _And if you could, it would be nice if you didn't laugh at me._

Now Steve really has no idea what's going on. He frowns, picks up his card, and types out a reply. _I'd never laugh at you, Shellhead._ It's the truth, of course.

_You say that now._

Well, that's mysterious.

When Steve gets to the basement, the door to Mr. Stark's workshop is cracked open. Steve stands on the threshold, steels himself, and takes a breath before announcing his presence. "Iron Man?" he calls out, and then pauses. "Mr. Stark?"

There's a distant, muffled static noise. "Just me," Iron Man calls back.

That's a relief.

Steve steps inside and closes the door behind himself. The workshop is spacious and crowded at the same time; it's a large room, but it seems like every square inch is occupied by something, whether it be a hanging half-assembled suit of armor or a haphazard collection of coffee mugs on the edge of a workbench. Iron Man is all the way across the room, behind a few cumbersome machines that Steve can't identify. Steve can just barely see the shining top of his helmet over the tallest of the machines.

There's a humming noise over where Iron Man is standing, and then popping noises. Iron Man is... making popcorn in a microwave oven? Steve didn't know Mr. Stark had one. There's already one in the kitchen upstairs. Steve's not sure whether having one's own microwave is extravagant or commonplace; he hasn't the faintest idea how much they cost. He suspects that, whatever the amount is, Mr. Stark can afford it.

"Glad you could make it," Iron Man calls back, without turning around. "Go on, have a seat on the couch. Make yourself at home. I'll be there in a second." He coughs. "Unless you were hoping for someone else?"

There's a couch wedged into one of the corners, piled with dark red cushions. It looks like it's seen better days, which isn't the condition Steve would have expected from someone with Tony Stark's money to throw around. It has a few rips in the fabric, and there are some stains on the armrest that look like oil, and a few scorch marks, but when Steve settles in, he sinks into the cushions and discovers it's extremely soft.

"Not _hoping for_ , so much," Steve temporizes, trying to find a way not to speak ill of Mr. Stark. Iron Man does work for him, after all, and Mr. Stark is kind enough to fund the Avengers -- even if he insists on saying infuriating and insulting things about Iron Man. "But this is Mr. Stark's workshop, and I thought maybe you'd asked him to help with... whatever you're planning. So I was expecting him, I suppose."

Iron Man's laugh is oddly sad. "No, I didn't need any help from him," he calls back. "I just... wanted a nice, private space, and this was the first place I thought of."

He must have asked Mr. Stark for permission. Given how Mr. Stark clearly feels about Iron Man, Steve can't imagine that that conversation went well, but he also knows it's not any of his business.

The popcorn is done; Steve can hear it rattling into the bowl. Iron Man picks up the bowl, and Steve can see the metal of his helmet glint as he turns around. Steve loses sight of him again as he weaves his way through the maze of machines and armor, but of course Steve can still hear his footsteps as he walks--

No, he can't.

Gone is the familiar clanking of metal footsteps, heavy and resonant. Instead, he hears the soft whisper of fabric on concrete. That's-- that's not how Iron Man sounds. Something's different. Something's changed.

The realization hits Steve all at once: Iron Man _isn't wearing the armor_.

"Shellhead?" Steve asks, uncertainly. "What are you wearing?"

He wants to rephrase himself as soon as he's said it; perhaps it's only due to the direction his thoughts have been tending lately, but to him the words sound laden with innuendo.

Thankfully, Iron Man doesn't seem to have picked up on it; his voice, even through the filters, is thin and nervous. "So this is the part where I was hoping you wouldn't laugh at me."

Iron Man steps out from behind a set of shelves, bowl of popcorn in his hand, and he's wearing-- well, Steve isn't exactly sure what he's wearing. Some kind of coverall. It looks like long underwear, or a child's set of pajamas, but obviously in an adult size. Like a union suit. Steve doesn't know if they still have union suits. Maybe they've evolved into this. The fabric looks soft, cozy. It's covering his entire body, save for the helmet, even right down over his feet. He's wearing gloves on his hands too, made of a similarly soft-looking fabric; they're the only separate pieces on what is otherwise a one-piece garment.

And it's in Iron Man's colors. What's more, the fabric is clearly meant to represent the armor. His arms and legs are a garish yellow, nothing like the golden sheen of the actual armor, and his torso is fire-engine red. There's a circle on his chest that Steve supposes is meant to represent the unibeam housing, but it's slightly off-center from where the actual armor's housing is. Steve can tell this because Iron Man is definitely still wearing at least some of the armor. The unibeam housing is outlined on his chest, pushing the fabric outward.

Steve doesn't understand. Why is Iron Man wearing this? He doesn't know what to say, other than that it's oddly adorable, which is not the reaction he thinks Iron Man wants him to have.

Iron Man's head tips downward, and Steve can see his eyes flicker shut behind the mask.

"Go on, then," Iron Man mutters. "I know it looks stupid. I can see your face, you know."

"No!" Steve says, hastily, because he'd never make fun of Iron Man, and he doesn't know why Iron Man thinks he ever would. "It's not stupid at all. I just-- I don't know what it is. Or why you're wearing it." Is this another one of those future things that everyone is supposed to know? He bites his lip. "So maybe I'm the stupid one."

Stricken, Iron Man's head snaps up. "Hey, hey, no!" he says, sharply, because apparently he'll stand up for Steve, but not himself. He breathes in and laughs a rattling laugh; he holds up his free hand and seems to regroup. "Why don't I try this again? I even made you popcorn."

Iron Man shuffles forward and brandishes the bowl, his hand thrust out like it's the most aggressive present in the entire world. Steve takes it, has a piece, just to be polite, and then sets the bowl on the little table next to the couch.

"Thank you," Steve says, awkwardly. "It was nice of you."

Iron Man tilts his head. "Uh. You're welcome."

When Iron Man drags his gloved hand over his face, it doesn't make the usual clanking noise, just the susurration of fabric. Steve thinks he's beginning to like that sound, too.

Then Iron Man sits down. Next to him. The couch doesn't creak as much as furniture usually does when it's subjected to the armor, and Steve can already tell he's ditched the gauntlets and boots, under... whatever he's wearing.

"So," Iron Man says, like the word is a sentence in and of itself. "I should probably mention that Mr. Stark controls merchandising rights for the Avengers, and sometimes companies send him samples of products they'd like him to approve." 

His laugh is a little mechanical beep, and he slaps his hands against his thighs. There's no metallic sound whatsoever. How much armor isn't he wearing?

"Like, uh, footie pajamas," Iron Man continues. "As you can see. So I thought, well... it might be nice to be able to... wear a little less metal around you." He sounds hopeful.

Steve sure likes how that sounds, but he doesn't understand how any of this is possible. "But you have to wear the armor." He frowns. "That's what you said. You said you'd die without it."

That was what Mr. Stark had said, too, but he doesn't need to tell Iron Man about that conversation.

Iron Man is silent for a while, and then he sighs. "I've never told anyone this." He pauses and amends himself. "Other than Mr. Stark, I suppose." He coughs and glances briefly away. "I-- I do have to wear the armor. But it's only the chestplate." He taps his chest with two fingers, and finally Steve hears metal. "A few years ago, I-- I-- I was in an accident, you might say. Shrapnel to the chest. The short version of the story is that I ended up with... a lot of damage. Permanent damage. The chestplate is what keeps my heart beating. That's what I meant when I said I had a heart condition. And that's why I can't remove the chestplate."

Steve wants to comfort Iron Man, but Iron Man keeps talking over him even as he opens his mouth.

In what Steve has come to recognize as the equivalent of a rueful smile, Iron Man tilts his head. "I'm not saying this because I want you to feel sorry for me," he adds. "I just wanted to explain the situation. It is what it is. I'm alive. I'm grateful."

Mr. Stark fixes his armor. Mr. Stark keeps him alive. So what does he have against his own bodyguard?

"It's not so bad, really," Iron Man continues. "I just have to charge it every so often. That's why I always have to leave in a hurry. Believe me, I'd rather stay with you. But if I don't get to an outlet on a regular basis, the battery runs out of juice." He laughs. "No one knows that either."

That seems... concerning. "But you're safe, right?" Steve asks. "I mean, you're charged now? All charged?"

Iron Man nods. "I'm fine." He pauses. Steve can hear him inhale. "There is one thing I miss, though, and it's... touching people. It's selfish, I know. But I have to wear the chestplate, and if anyone knew, they'd-- they'd know I was Iron Man. And I can't take that risk."

Steve stares in horror. "No one's _touched you_? In how long?"

Iron Man said last night that he wanted Steve to hold him, but this? This sounds like he's been deprived of all physical contact whatsoever. And that's a terrible thought.

"Well, uh," Iron Man says, sheepish. "Other than your basic social handshakes and, uh, kissing you... a couple of years."

_Years?_

"Can I touch you?" Steve blurts out. The words hang there between them. "I mean-- if you want--"

Iron Man hums softly. "I was kind of hoping you would." The words are a soft, wistful admission. "I mean, if you'd like to cuddle and watch a movie, we could do that, I was thinking. It's why I brought the popcorn. And a screen." He jerks his head toward a computer monitor atop the nearest workbench. Steve hadn't noticed it before.

"If you want to, we can do that," Steve agrees. He doesn't need the pretext, though, and he doesn't think Iron Man does either. "But honestly, I-- I just want to _touch_ you. So much." He's sure Iron Man can hear all the yearning in him.

Iron Man regards him in silence for a long moment, and then holds out his hand, palm up.

Steve takes it.

It's different than touching the armor. It's a ridiculously self-evident thing to think, but it's also true. The fabric under Steve's fingers is soft. Even though the metal of the armor is warm, the heat of Iron Man's body is different, more diffuse. Steve can feel him through the cloth: the bones of his fingers, the muscles padding his hand. He has long fingers. He's _real_ , and it's silly to think that, because obviously he's kissed Iron Man before, and Steve knows he's human under there -- but this is a different kind of intimacy. He's allowed to linger. And even if he isn't permitted to see Iron Man's face, he can look at him now. He can look at him like this, learn the form of him that the armor hides.

Iron Man makes a quiet clicking noise, a catch in the back of his throat, and that's when Steve realizes he's been rubbing Iron Man's palm with his thumb, massaging it. He freezes. He hadn't asked first.

"Shellhead?" he asks. "I'm sorry. Is this not okay? I can stop."

"Don't stop," Iron Man says, instantly. There's something low and content in his voice, a note Steve has never heard before. "Please don't stop. You're amazing."

Steve looks up and meets Iron Man's eyes. "More?"

He can just barely make out Iron Man's smile in the shadow of the mouth-slit.

"More," Iron Man agrees, softly. His voice is halting, like he thinks Steve will say no now that he knows what Iron Man wants. Steve gets the impression Iron Man doesn't tell too many people what he actually wants. But Iron Man definitely wants this.

And how can Steve possibly refuse him?

Daring, Steve runs his fingers over Iron Man's wrist, up the inside of his arm, as Iron Man exhales hard and shudders in unfeigned pleasure.

"So good, Steve," Iron Man breathes, and even though Steve can't help but be flattered -- wow, he wasn't kidding about being starved for human contact. He leans a little closer on the couch, not quite close enough to press against him.

Steve flattens his hand against Iron Man's biceps appreciatively and grins. "All that muscle under the armor is real, huh? Nice."

Iron Man's voice is more than a little strangled. "You're making me blush again, Cap." His laugh sounds embarrassed. "You really thought I-- I mean, you thought Mr. Stark just molded those muscles into the metal?"

"I can't say as I thought about it much." He's been trying not to think about Iron Man's body under the armor. No sense in wanting what he can't have, after all. "But I'm... let's just call it _pleasantly surprised_." He slides his hand up Iron Man's arm appreciatively. His fingertips bump the edge of the chestplate, when he gets to Iron Man's shoulder.

Iron Man coughs. "That's sweet of you, Winghead. Even though I know it's nothing compared to you." He gives Steve's bare arms a significant glance.

"No, no, no!" Steve shakes his head. "Don't even think that. For one thing, what you have, you earned. I didn't exactly have to work hard to look like this. And for another, well, you're real handsome."

"Still blushing, you know." Iron Man coughs again.

"You could touch me back?" Steve offers. "If you wanted to."

Okay, so he's not exactly noble, but touch is a two-way street -- if no one's touched Iron Man, then Iron Man hasn't touched anyone either.

But it doesn't look like the thought has occurred to Iron Man before. He stops, like he needs to recalibrate his expectations, and he tilts his head to the side. "You really mean that?"

As if Steve's going to say no. "Of course I do."

Iron Man angles his body toward him, leaning in a little closer, and then he reaches out and takes one of Steve's hands in both of his own. Steve's not surprised that Iron Man has good hands. The fabric of his gloves is soft against the calluses of Steve's fingers, roughened by catching his shield every day, and Iron Man hums softly as he smooths out the muscles of Steve'a palm. Then he slides one of his hands down, his thumb dancing over the sensitive skin of Steve's wrist, and Steve just barely chokes back a moan, because he's pretty sure Iron Man didn't intend to elicit this reaction from just a touch.

He might have been able to control his voice, but he can't control the rest of his reaction; heat starts to gather, low in his belly, and he knows he's at least half-hard from just this one touch. It was an understandable reaction when Iron Man kissed him -- and it was certainly understandable that Iron Man could politely ignore it -- but just _holding hands_ isn't supposed to get anyone this worked-up.

Iron Man pauses. His eyes behind the mask are keen, intent, searching Steve's face. "Steve? You all right there?"

Steve nods; he can feel his face heat up even as the rest of the blood in his body keeps heading south. "I'm good," he says, hoarsely. "Maybe-- maybe a little too good."

Iron Man's gaze flicks downward to Steve's lap. Steve regrets wearing sweatpants. He's usually in his uniform around Iron Man, and the thick padding of his uniform pants usually does a decent job concealing any... excitement. Maybe Iron Man literally hadn't noticed before -- it's possible, and it would definitely explain why he hasn't said anything -- but Steve sure can't hide anything now.

"Oh!" Iron Man mouths the sound to himself, a surprised little breath of realization, barely voicing it.

That's when Steve sees the trepidation in Iron Man's eyes, and he jerks his hand away.

"You don't want this," Steve says. His face is burning now, and he has to look away. He can't. It's his own fault for wanting too much. For wanting more than Iron Man wants. "You don't want me like that. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. I just-- it felt good."

It's a terrible excuse. There is no excuse, really.

"You haven't done anything wrong," Iron Man replies, but his voice is trembling. "You absolutely haven't. I'm glad I could... make you feel good. And I do want you. Of course I want you. I just-- I just." He pauses, and he drags his hand over his face again. "I can't. I mean, I _can_ , I can... touch you, if that's what you want, and I'd like to, but you-- you can't. You can't touch me. I'm sorry."

Steve's not sure how to interpret the vast amounts of mixed signals. "What do you mean, _can't_?" He wants to, and Iron Man sounds like he's at least interested. Steve doesn't understand what's going on here.

Silence presses down on them.

Iron Man sighs heavily. "You want to know something else I've never told anyone?" Behind the mask, his eyes fall shut. "I haven't slept with anyone since the accident. The cardiac damage affected, uh." He pauses delicately. "A lot of things. I mostly can't even-- I can't stay-- even when I'm by myself, I still can't get--" He stops again. He presses his palms against his legs in obvious dismay. His thighs clearly aren't covered in armor. Steve needs to stop thinking about touching him. "I'm sorry. I really am. But I can't do it."

His head snaps up and he meets Steve's gaze, anguish in his eyes.

Oh. Well. That's something that hadn't occurred to Steve.

"It's all right," he says, as gently as he can. "I'm sorry that happened to you. The doctors couldn't do anything for it?"

A laugh rattles out the suit speakers. "I, uh," Iron Man says. "I've never seen a doctor about it."

"What?"

Iron Man twists his fingers together in his lap. "It's hard to explain, and I know you won't believe me, but... people would care, if they found out about this. People would think less of me. I know you wouldn't -- at least, I hope you wouldn't -- but everyone else would. I know they would."

Steve can't believe people nowadays would be so crass as to pry into Iron Man's intimate medical problems. "That's-- that's _awful_."

"That's life as a celebrity, Cap." Iron Man sighs. "People think they're entitled to all the juicy details."

"But there has to be something the doctors can do for you." He doesn't know if that's true, but he wants it to be. Surely the future has everything. "There are drugs now for that, aren't there? I know I've heard of one. You must have heard of it too, if even I have." He racks his brain. He can't quite remember what it was called. "Starts with a V, maybe?"

Iron Man tilts his head quizzically. He's squinting. "How do you even know what Viagra is?"

Yeah, that was the name, all right. Steve squints right back, because isn't the answer obvious? "Don't you get messages about it too? I get messages about it all the time! From strangers! They want me to buy it. And they want to sell me things to, uh, make me bigger. And none of them can spell."

There's a long pause, and then Iron Man... bursts out laughing. "Oh my God," he says, still chuckling. "You actually read your spam. Why in the world do you read your spam?"

At least Iron Man seems a lot less tense now. Sure, Steve's face is still warm, but he's willing to endure a little discomfort to take the heat off Iron Man.

And Steve doesn't even know what Iron Man's talking about. Steve ate a lot of Spam during the war. He wasn't a big fan of it. Iron Man can't be talking about the same thing. This makes no sense. 

"I'm sorry," he says. He hates when he doesn't know things that everyone else now does."I don't know what you mean."

Iron Man stares at him for a few seconds. At least he's stopped laughing now. "It's another word for unsolicited commercial e-mail," he says, patiently. His voice is kind. "I'm sorry; I didn't mean to make you feel bad. It's called spam because-- okay, you know what, we can talk about Monty Python some other time." Steve's not sure Iron Man's speaking English anymore. "Anyway," he continues, "even if you're a polite kind of person, which you are, you shouldn't bother reading your spam. No one does. And Viagra _is_ real, but those guys are just interested in scamming you out of your money. And don't answer anyone who claims to be a Nigerian prince, while you're at it. Also a scam."

"No one told me I shouldn't read their messages," Steve says, defensively. He still feels like an idiot. But it's better than Iron Man feeling miserable, so it's a fair trade.

Iron Man laughs a quiet little laugh. "It's okay. Now you know. They also can't make your dick bigger, by the way. That process doesn't actually exist." He glances down again, briefly but significantly. "Not that you, um, look like you need the help."

Steve can't help but stare at his own lap now. He's getting hard again just from Iron Man _looking_ at him. God. "I, uh." He bites his lip. "I've never had any complaints." He realizes, too late, how that must sound, now that Iron Man's just finished explaining why he doesn't want what Steve wants. Steve shuts his eyes. "I'm sorry. I can do without, honest. I don't mean to pressure you."

"You're not. You're really not, I promise. Everything's okay." Iron Man's voice is low and coaxing, sympathetic, and he fits his hand over Steve's. "Hey. Look at me?"

He knows he'll always do anything Iron Man asks. He lifts his head.

Behind the mask, Iron Man's eyes are wide and earnest. He squeezes Steve's hand. His fingers are gentle. Steve's not sure he'll ever be able to see Iron Man in full armor without wishing for this again, and he hates the thought.

"There you are," Iron Man murmurs. "It's all right. I'm not offended. I'm... flattered, actually. It means a lot to me that you'd still want me, not knowing a thing about what I look like, and-- and knowing the rest of it. It'd be more than a lot of people could take, trust me."

Steve doesn't know who could be so unkind to Iron Man. He turns his hand over and squeezes Iron Man's hand right back. "I love you," he says. "And I'm staying with you for as long as you want me. It doesn't matter to me what you can or can't do. That's not what this is about, Shellhead." He knows his body is doing his best to make that sentence into a lie. He sighs. "It just... doesn't take all that much to get me all worked-up, these days." Another thing the serum has given him. "But that doesn't mean I have to do something about it."

"I could, though." Iron Man repeats the offer, a little less hesitantly. "I would. If you wanted me to." He blows out a breath; it whistles through the mouth-slit. "I did mean it when I said I wanted you. Quite a lot. You just can't-- I'd rather you not try to reciprocate."

Steve can't say he's not tempted, but-- "It's not that you don't want me to, uh, touch you, right? If it could happen, you'd want that?"

If Iron Man couldn't ever get off on it, or if Iron Man just didn't want someone to touch him -- that would be one thing. Iron Man would be offering all he wanted, and then Steve might consider it equitable, because they'd both be fulfilled, one way or the other. But if Iron Man can't have what he wants, then Steve would be leaving him hanging, and that's obviously unfair.

Iron Man's nod is almost wary. Like he doesn't know where Steve's going with this.

"Then no," Steve says. "If it can't be mutual, I'd rather not. I don't want to make you any more frustrated than you probably already are." He has hands. He can manage just fine. He smiles. "I'd still be interested in some cuddling, though, if you'd still like that."

"How are you even real?" Iron Man says, under his breath, as if he expected Steve to say anything other than that. He nods again, more enthusiastically. "Absolutely, yes, I'd still like that."

Steve holds out an arm, and Iron Man leans into him, pressing up against him, hip to knee, and he's definitely not wearing anything metal below the waist. Steve's not going to contemplate that right now. He's with Iron Man, and it's enough.

"Oh, that's lovely," Iron Man says, and Steve's heart is overflowing with joy.

"I'm glad," Steve says, and he turns his head and kisses the side of the faceplate.

Iron Man laughs. "Hey," he asks, "so how about I introduce you to Monty Python after all?"

Steve has no idea who or what that is, but Iron Man likes it, and he wants to know everything Iron Man likes. "Sure," he says, grinning. "Why not?"

* * *

Monty Python turns out to be a comedy television show. Iron Man insists that one of the movies, the one about King Arthur, is even better than the show, but Steve privately thinks that it's just that Iron Man really wants to be a knight. And honestly, Steve doesn't really care what they watch as long as Iron Man keeps his arm around him. But whatever this is, it's at least funny, and he likes when Iron Man laughs and holds him a little tighter. He's not sure Iron Man knows he's doing it.

During the fourth or fifth episode that Iron Man puts on, Steve's eyes start to fall shut just as a man is slapping another man in the face with a large trout. He can feel himself start to list to the side, his cheek pressing against Iron Man's metal shoulder.

Steve yawns.

Wrapped around Steve's side, Iron Man's fingers tighten for a second, and then his grip relaxes as he gently strokes up and down Steve's ribs. It would be easy to fall asleep like this. But he shouldn't.

He tries to push himself back up, but Iron Man is still holding him, and it's not like Steve wants him to let go either, but it's not like Steve can stay.

"I should go," Steve says. "I should get some sleep."

Iron Man's grip relaxes, so Steve can free himself if he wants. He doesn't want to.

"You don't have to go," Iron Man offers. He sounds hopeful. "Not if you don't want to, anyway. You can sleep here."

The thought of just curling up next to Iron Man and getting some sleep -- cuddling with him the whole night! -- is incredibly appealing, but surely Iron Man has to know why that isn't a possibility. "Your boss is going to get up eventually, Shellhead," Steve points out. "And he's probably going to want to do some work, and then he's going to come down here and find us. I'd love to stay with you, but I-- I'd rather not have him interrupt a private moment."

That sounds better than _I don't want to talk to him again right now_. Steve congratulates himself on his tact.

Iron Man's hum is a low, almost sad sound. "He won't," Iron Man says, and Steve wonders how Iron Man can say that with such confidence. "Mr. Stark's not going to bother you again, okay? I'll make sure you never have to see him." There's an odd sort of bitterness in his voice, and Steve wonders why. Iron Man pauses. "I'll wake you up before morning, if it would make you feel better?"

Steve supposes he can't complain about that. "Okay," he mumbles. "Sounds good."

He knows he should probably protest more, but Iron Man's embrace is warm and soft, and Steve just wants to stay here forever.

"Mmm." Iron Man sounds happier now. This is good. "Okay, then." He rests his hand on Steve's shoulder. "Make yourself at home. Do you want me to get you a pillow?"

"You already did."

Maybe if Steve were less tired, he wouldn't do this, but right now it seems like a great idea. He rolls forward, sliding down Iron Man's chest until he topples over entirely, his head in Iron Man's lap. Iron Man feels so nice. His thighs are strong, muscular... and a good pillow. Steve's always thought Iron Man has good legs.

"Uh," Iron Man says, and Steve can feel the long muscles of his thighs start to tense up. "Is that what you meant to do?"

Oh. He probably thinks Steve is going to try something. He wouldn't. Iron Man already said no.

"It's not--" Steve lifts a hand and waves it vaguely around-- "like that. You've got nice thighs. I just thought you'd be a comfy pillow."

Iron Man laughs. "Am I?"

"Yeah," Steve slurs into Iron Man's thigh. His eyes are falling shut again. This is really nice. "You are."

He hears the rustle of fabric, and he forces his eyes open to see Iron Man taking a folded blanket from the back of the couch. Iron Man unfolds it, and then the blanket settles over him.

"You're a bold one," Iron Man murmurs. It sounds like he's talking to himself. "What in the world am I going to do with you?"

He sounds sad again. Steve wishes he weren't. He doesn't understand.

"You can do anything you want with me," Steve informs him, sleepily.

This doesn't seem to be what Iron Man wants to hear; he just sighs, and he pets Steve's hair, his gloved hand curving over Steve's head. It feels wonderful. Steve can figure everything else out in the morning, he's sure.

"Nothing to be sad about," Steve tells him. It's difficult to form words. "So don't be sad, 'Venger."

Iron Man's laugh is soft. "I'll try. You go to sleep, Winghead," Iron Man says, his voice fond. "I'll still be here when you wake up. I'm not going anywhere."

Steve smiles and closes his eyes again. He could get used to this.

* * *

Steve's up by 0600 every morning, a rhythm well-trained into him, a familiar routine. But when he opens his eyes, the world around him is unfamiliar. He's stretched out on a couch, covered in a blanket, and at first he can't make sense of the towering shadows around him in the dimness. Then he blinks, and memory comes back to him as his vision resolves: he's in Mr. Stark's workshop. Those are Mr. Stark's machines. The clock on the wall reads 5:46, in bright red digits. Steve's still not used to these clocks.

And Steve's head is still in Iron Man's lap. Neither of them moved all night, it seems. And despite Iron Man saying he'd wake Steve up, he's definitely asleep now, sitting upright. His head is tipped back against the couch cushions, and Steve can hear his slow, even breaths. One of his hands is curled over Steve's shoulder. It's not possessiveness, exactly. He's not holding Steve like he thinks he owns him. He's holding Steve like a child might clutch a beloved blanket or toy, like Steve can keep him safe from whatever nightmares live inside his head.

Steve wonders what kind of life Iron Man has had.

He doesn't know much, but the scant details he does know -- disabling, life-threatening accident -- sure sound like they would lead to nights and nights of miserable dreams. Steve understands more than a little about that himself.

He could find out.

The terrible, perverse thought enters his head: he knows how to remove Iron Man's helmet. He's pretty sure he knows where the releases are. He could do it, right now. Iron Man's asleep. He might not even wake up. And Steve could see his face. And he'd _know_.

He wouldn't know anything important, he reminds himself. It's not like Iron Man can be someone he knows, under the armor; Steve hasn't met any of Mr. Stark's employees, other than Mr. Hogan, and Mr. Hogan was the one who drove the two of them to the theater, so he can't possibly be Iron Man.

And if he looked, he would destroy every ounce of trust Iron Man has placed in him. Of course he wants to know. He's only human. But he isn't going to do it. It's like the myth of Cupid and Psyche, and he won't be the one spying on his beloved in the darkness.

He already knows everything he needs to know. He told Mr. Stark that the other day. It's the truth.

Gingerly, he starts to lever himself up, and Iron Man creaks and stirs, coming around.

"Oh, hey," Iron Man says, and the filtered voice sounds pleased and surprised at the same time. "You're still here."

It can't be a good thing that Iron Man's expectations are so low, but Steve smiles up at him anyway. "Nowhere else I'd rather be," he says, softly, and once he's sat up he takes Iron Man's hand and presses a kiss to his fingers. "But I think now I ought to go," he says, reluctantly standing. "I'd hate for Mr. Stark to interrupt us."

Iron Man makes a quiet clicking noise. Steve supposes that must be agreement.

When Steve starts to step away, Iron Man catches his hand.

"Before I," Iron Man begins, and then he gestures at his chest with his free hand. "Before-- before everything, not a lot of people ever really wanted to spend the whole night with me. They got what they wanted and they left. And after -- there's been no one. You're the only one. I know it's... less than you wanted from me, but I'm grateful. I really liked it. So thank you."

Steve wonders what the hell happened, for so much of Iron Man's life to go so wrong.

"I'm glad I could make you happy," Steve tells him. "I'm glad I stayed. I'd do it again. And, like I said, it's enough. It really is. I don't need more."

"I can't ask you to be celibate--"

"Who said anything about that?" Steve can feel his face heat, but he keeps talking anyway. "I'm not a saint. And I have hands. They work just fine."

"Oh," Iron Man says, and then, in an entirely different tone, " _Oh_." He gets it. And then he laughs. "Your blush is adorable, you know."

Steve's face is still hot. "Is that a good thing?"

"Winghead," Iron Man says, fervently, "you're the _best_ thing."

He reaches up and brushes Steve's fire-hot cheekbone with the back of his hand, the fabric so much softer than the gauntlet, and, yeah, Steve could definitely get used to this.

* * *

With Iron Man, the days seem to fly by. And the weeks. And even the months. Steve wakes up one morning and realizes it's been just over five months since the two of them started dating. He lies in bed, stares up at the ceiling, and allows himself to ponder this.

Steve's never been very good with relationships. While falling in love with a Nazi spy was an inauspicious start to his love life, it wasn't like he'd done much better with Betsy and Peggy than he had with Cynthia.

But Iron Man? Iron Man's different. With him, it's easy. It's all easy. There's no drama. Heck, there aren't even any fights. And, sure, maybe some people would say it's not a good idea to date a coworker -- but they still get along incredibly well as Avengers. Maybe even better than they did before. They don't fight about command decisions. It's as if Iron Man always knows what the call will be before he makes it -- and likewise, he always knows just where Iron Man's going to be before he leaps off a building. Iron Man catches him. Always.

Amazingly, Iron Man can actually spare some time for him during the day, and even more amazingly, they end up in the East Village for a late lunch. Iron Man can't eat in the armor, but he insists there's a pizza place that Steve absolutely has to try.

"But I'm _from_ New York," Steve points out, as they head down the sidewalk together, dodging past pedestrians. Even New Yorkers don't stop for Avengers. Maybe especially New Yorkers. "I've _had_ pizza. We had pizza back in my day, too."

"Yeah, and if I wanted to take you to Lombardi's, I'd take you to Lombardi's," Iron Man says, and then he chuckles. "You should see your face. Yeah, it's still there. But this is better. Trust me."

The Village now has a notably different character than it did in Steve's day. And it's not like he hasn't seen it since then, but the last time he had been here had been at night, when Iron Man had taken him to that movie, and he hadn't really had the chance to look around. But now he does, and -- wow. The two men walking in front of them are holding hands. Right here in public. And no one's even looking at them twice. The world's sure changed. It's amazing. Steve never even thought he could hope for this.

He and Iron Man aren't holding hands, of course, because no one knows about them except the Avengers. Well, the Avengers and Mr. Stark.

He wonders if Iron Man would want to tell more people about them, someday. He wonders if Iron Man would hold his hand in public.

"So, anyway," Iron Man continues, "it's just around the-- _oh, no_."

Iron Man has stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk.

Steve looks up and follows Iron Man's line of sight, to see smoke pouring out of an open fourth-floor apartment window. It's thick, heavy smoke, and Steve can just barely see the crackle of flames beyond. In the distance, he hears a siren, but faraway -- at least a few minutes out.

"Right." Steve unslings his shield. "Let's do this. I can break the door down."

But Iron Man lays a hand on his arm. "No, let me," he says, insistent. "I'm fireproof. And I'm faster."

Steve starts running anyway as Iron Man launches himself into the air, and by the time Iron Man has flown in through the open window, Steve has reached the building itself. The residents are pouring out the front door, and Steve takes charge.

"Is everyone out of the building?" he asks.

"No," an older woman says urgently, "there's-- in 4-A, Beth's still at work, but her son just got home from school." She points at the window that Iron Man entered.

Their disused comm line crackles to life in Steve's ear. "Cap, there's a kid here." Iron Man's voice is tense. "He's scared, but I've got him. This place is falling apart. Hang on, we're coming out."

Steve's heart is pounding as he waits, and he waits, and about thirty seconds later he sees a gleam of red and gold inside the building, and then Iron Man flies back out the window, holding a boy in his arms. The kid looks like he's maybe eight or nine, and he's clutching Iron Man tight as Iron Man comes in for a landing.

Steve sprints toward them, getting there just in time for Iron Man to touch down. Iron Man sets the kid down -- and the kid promptly bursts into tears.

Great. Steve stares helplessly. He's never been very good with kids. He clears his throat. "Are you hurt?" he asks. The boy doesn't look injured, but it's hard to tell. Maybe he's just frightened. Why is he crying so much?

The boy looks up at him and shakes his head, mute. His eyes are wide, terrified, and he takes a step back.

"It's okay, Cap," Iron Man says over comms. "I've got this."

And then Iron Man kneels down, putting himself on a level with the kid. "Hey, there," he says. His voice is low, soft, gentle. "You're not in trouble, I promise. I'm Iron Man, and this is my friend Captain America--" he gestures at Steve-- "and we're going to stay here with you until your parents show up. What's your name?"

The boy chews on his lip before he answers. Tears continue to drip down his face. "Eddie."

"That's a good name," Iron Man says, cheerfully. "That's my-- I mean, I have a friend whose middle name is Edward. That was pretty scary, huh, Eddie?"

Silent once more, Eddie nods.

"But you were so brave," Iron Man tells him. "You did just what I asked you to do, even though it was scary, and you helped me so I could fly both of us out the window. That was a really important thing you did, and you did it exactly right. And you're going to be just fine. Everyone's going to be fine. Look, here come the fire trucks. Do you like fire trucks?"

The fire department is, indeed, pulling up behind them.

Eddie nods again. He's not crying as hard anymore. Iron Man is distracting him surprisingly well.

"I like fire trucks too," Iron Man agrees. "They're red. Red's my favorite color."

Eddie extends a hesitant finger and points at him. "You're red."

"I sure am." Iron Man says. He sounds proud. "Hey, since you did such a good job, I have a present for you. Would you like a present?"

Eddie sniffs a few more times and stops crying. "A present? For me?" His eyes are wide now with excited curiosity, and not with fear. "Really?"

"Absolutely," Iron Man assures him. "Here you go."

Steve had no idea Iron Man was this good with kids. He watches in awe as Iron Man opens a little compartment on the edge of one of his gauntlets. His identicard is in there, as well as a money clip, but what he takes out is a long, folded strip of wax paper. Steve can't quite make out what it is, but then Iron Man unfolds it.

"Stickers!" Iron Man crows, jubilantly, and sure enough, Steve sees a little glittery Avengers A on the paper. Next to it, farther down the strip, there's a little cartoon figure of Iron Man, also glittery, and then Steve's shield. He proffers the paper. It's perforated into sections. "Here, you'll have to take one yourself." He wiggles the fingers of his free hand. "My armor is too strong to peel off stickers, you see. I wouldn't want to rip them by accident."

Eddie stares up at him, awed. "Can-- can I have _two_?"

"I'll tell you what," Iron Man says, like he's making a deal. "You were so good, you can have _three_. Yeah, there you go, tear them off just like that. Good job!" He's still holding out the paper, as Eddie carefully takes three stickers.

Eddie's smiling now. "Thank you, Iron Man."

"You're very welcome," Iron Man says, as he watches Eddie stick the stickers on his ash-streaked t-shirt. "See, there, now you have a Captain America one. That's the best one. He's my favorite Avenger."

Iron Man looks up at Steve. Behind the mask, he's smiling too. He's practically _beaming;_ his teeth are glinting white behind the mouth-slit. He looks like he's honestly happy. Thrilled, even.

Steve's sure learning a lot about Iron Man.

"Hey, Cap!" he calls out, as he rises to his feet. "You want a sticker too?"

Laughing, Steve trots over to the two of them. "Sure."

Iron Man thrusts the strip of stickers in his direction. "Which one?"

"Obviously an Iron Man one," Steve says, passing over the tiny stickers of Hank and Jan at ant and wasp size, respectively, and then the sticker of Mjölnir, to get to the next Iron Man one. "He's _my_ favorite," he adds to Eddie, as he eventually manages to peel the sticker off without removing his gloves.

Eddie giggles.

Steve slaps the sticker on the middle of his chest, right in the center of the star. The little Iron Man figure glitters in the sunlight.

Iron Man coughs. "Isn't that, um, desecrating the flag, Winghead?"

"Not the way I see it." Steve glances down and back up. "You want me to stick one on you? You did a good job too, after all."

Iron Man laughs his familiar staticky laugh. "All right. Go for it."

Steve peels off the next sticker, his shield. Before Iron Man can give him any further instructions, Steve affixes it to Iron Man's chestplate. Off-center. Right over his heart.

"There you go," Steve says, softly. His fingers linger on the armor an instant longer than they perhaps should have. "One Captain America, all yours."

Iron Man looks down at himself and makes a soft, mechanical clicking noise, and when he speaks, his voice is choked with emotion. "Just what I've always wanted."

* * *

By the time they get everything sorted out with the fire department, it's almost dinnertime, and Iron Man suggests they go back home and -- so he says -- _just get a damn pizza delivered_. Steve's in favor of that, because maybe that means Iron Man will get to have some of the leftovers when they're done. Iron Man had ordered for both of them, and he'd signed the receipt at the door, so Steve supposes he paid too, somehow, but Steve hadn't even seen him tip the guy. Maybe it's one of the things the future does differently, but Steve thinks you should pay someone who brings you something.

None of the rest of the team is around, so it's just him and Iron Man in the kitchen as Steve sets two slices of pizza margherita on his plate and Iron Man slurps iced coffee through a straw.

"You were great out there today, Shellhead," Steve tells him. "That was amazing."

Iron Man tilts his head to the side; his shoulders move slightly, a constricted shrug. "Eh, you know, it wasn't that special. An ordinary day for a superhero. It wasn't anything that anyone else wouldn't have done."

"Yeah, well," Steve says, a little ruefully, "I _couldn't_ have done it, so thank you. You were really good with that kid. I was watching you the whole time and I still don't know how you calmed him down."

Iron Man shrugs again and has another sip of coffee. "Oh, that? That was nothing. There's no trick to it or anything. You just kind of have to, well, remember what it was like to be a kid, and think of what you would have wanted an adult to tell you. Then you just... be that person. You pretend."

Steve grins. "Oh, _there's no trick to it_ , he says. Pfft. It looks like magic to me." He's still grinning. "You like kids a lot, don't you?"

"Sure," Iron Man says, amiably. "Of course I do. Don't most people?" He sticks the straw back in his mouth-slit and keeps drinking.

"Do you want kids?"

Steve doesn't know where the question comes from, for all that he's the one who asks it; he certainly hasn't been planning to ask it. But it seems right. He and Iron Man have been together for months. He's serious about Iron Man, he'd like to think Iron Man is serious about him, and it just... seems like something he should know. He should find out if they're on the same page here.

If the question came as a surprise to him, it's even more of a surprise to Iron Man.

Iron Man makes a horrible distorted-static noise and starts coughing. He's choking on his coffee. After several terrible seconds, he gets the straw out of his mouth, and then he coughs a few more times for good measure.

That wasn't the reaction Steve was hoping for.

"I'm sorry," Steve says, dejected, ashamed. "I know it's-- it's probably too soon to ask about something like that. I just figured we'd been together this long, and, well, I thought we should... find out if our goals align." _Great, Rogers, great. That's the least romantic phrasing in the whole world. It's love, not battlefield tactics._ "I'm really sorry. I shouldn't have presumed--"

"Hey, hey, no!" Iron Man's voice is still raspy, but he flings out a hand to stop him. "It's a good question. It's a great question. And I'm-- I'm really happy that you're serious enough about me that you'd want to ask something like that." He pauses and coughs again. "I just-- no one I've ever dated has asked me that. Not even the people I was serious about. I just wasn't expecting it."

If Iron Man's been in relationships that were this serious -- Steve hasn't, but clearly Iron Man has -- then Steve's honestly surprised that the question has never come up. Steve raises his eyebrows. "Never?"

Iron Man shakes his head and sighs. "People just look at me and assume I'm... the kind of guy who'd never want kids, you know? They don't think they need to ask, because they're sure they already know the answer."

Now that's even more surprising. Steve could tell Iron Man really liked kids in about thirty seconds flat. Maybe no one else he'd been with had seen him interact with them -- but still, it's a heck of an assumption for everyone to make about him.

"Then I think a lot of people must not know you well at all," Steve concludes.

Iron Man's sigh is a heavy, crackling exhalation, like breathing into a microphone. "Maybe," he says. "I'm not an easy man to know."

"I think I know you," Steve offers, quietly.

Iron Man laughs, and the sound is almost sad. "That's because you're trying harder than anyone has in my entire life. And even so, there are things you don't know about me. Things you wouldn't like if you knew them."

That's a lot like what Mr. Stark said about Iron Man, the last time Steve saw him. He wonders if they're talking about the same things.

"You can't know that for sure," Steve counters. "And I don't need to know your secrets. I've told you that. As far as I'm concerned, I know who you are. I know the important things. I know I love you."

Eyes unfocused behind the mask, Iron Man stares off into the middle distance. He's quiet for a long time.

"I want kids." There's a longing in Iron Man's voice that Steve's never heard before. "I definitely want kids. But I don't think I should have them."

Well, that's an answer Steve definitely wasn't expecting. 

"Why not?"

Iron Man sighs again. He looks away. "My father was... a stern man." He's spread his hands out on the table, his gaze fixed on the backs of his gauntlets. Steve suspects he knows what _stern_ means, and he doesn't like it. He also has a pretty good guess about the word _was_ , which is confirmed as Iron Man keeps talking. "I-- I loved him. I still miss him. But I don't want to be like him, and I'm scared that I would be."

No. That's wrong. He wouldn't be a terrible father, not in the slightest. Isn't that obvious? It's obvious to Steve. He opens his mouth to tell Iron Man so, but Iron Man is still talking.

"And," Iron Man adds, "having a child would absolutely be an irresponsible act on my part."

Surprised, Steve blinks. "That's... the exact opposite of the word people usually use when talking about parenthood."

Another sad laugh issues from Iron Man's mouth, more choked static. "Yeah," he says, almost bitterly. "I know. But I'm a working superhero. If I had a kid, and one of my enemies found out, that kid would be a target. Instant leverage. That's the height of irresponsibility. And, sure, I could probably have a kid if I retired. But I can't imagine myself getting out of this game anytime soon. I can save the world. I can do things no one else can, and that means I have a duty to humanity to do them. And it also means not putting anyone who can't take care of themselves in harm's way."

Steve nods slowly. It's a fair point. He hadn't thought of that. He suspects that, given that, he's also one of the only people Iron Man is willing to date.

"There's more," Iron Man says. "The thing is, genetically, there's a whole lot of me that I'd prefer not to pass on. I know what it's like to be me, and I'd rather not bring anyone else into the world who would have to live with what I've lived with."

Steve isn't sure what Iron Man means. "A medical problem?" he ventures. "Your heart? Wait, no. I don't know."

It can't be his heart. Iron Man said that was an injury. An accident. That wouldn't be something that could affect a child of his.

"Not my heart." Iron Man shakes his head. He's laughing again. It's not a pleasant sound. "Except in the emotional sense, I suppose." He sighs. "I'm trying to think of a way to say this that doesn't involve the phrase _clinical depression_ , but I'm-- I'm just-- I'm not happy."

Steve's chest is a torn sheet of paper, suddenly crumpling into a ball. "Not _happy_? With me? You mean, I--"

Iron Man holds up one finger. "No, it's not you. You have nothing to do with it. You actually make me very, very happy. Trust me." Steve can just barely make out his smile behind the mouth-slit. But then the smile fades. "I'm just... not a happy person. Intrinsically. Whatever other people have that-- that makes them love themselves, or even like themselves, I don't have that. And this-- this _affliction_... it's heritable. I don't want to pass that on, the way I feel. I wouldn't wish this on anyone. I don't want to have a child knowing that they could feel like this because of me, because I was selfish enough to want them to exist."

"But," Steve says, his voice halting. He doesn't know what to say. He doesn't want to believe this. He doesn't think he even knows how to accept this. "You don't _seem_ unhappy."

He doesn't know what to do about this. He wants to stand tall and hold out his shield and make Iron Man _safe_. There's nothing he can do.

"I have a lot of practice seeming otherwise." Iron Man's voice is distant. "Also there's the part where I'm wearing a full-face mask. It's actually a lot easier to be Iron Man. Less to pretend." His eyes fall shut again behind the mask. "I wish... I wish I got to keep you. But I know I won't."

"That's not true," Steve replies, automatically, but he thinks that perhaps he's starting to see what Iron Man means by _not happy_ , like a raincloud on the horizon. Maybe Iron Man just hasn't let him see this side of him before. "I'm staying. I mean that. Is there anything I can do?"

Maybe it's strange to offer this. Maybe Iron Man will decline. But Steve just feels so helpless.

"About the inside of my head?" Iron Man shrugs again, an abortive motion. Steve imagines the man inside the armor, trapped there. Unable to show his true feelings, and considering it a blessing. "No, not really."

"About anything," Steve says. He might as well offer everything he can. Maybe he can't battle Iron Man's demons for him, but he'll give him everything he's got if it will lift his spirits even an iota. "Do you need money? I have money."

Iron Man is silent for a few seconds more than he should have been, and Steve starts to think he's made a mistake.

"Do I _what_ ," Iron Man says, finally, incredulously, and his voice cracks in the middle of the word, He's shaking, and static hisses loudly through the vocal filters. Steve wonders what's wrong with him. Then he realizes that Iron Man is actually _laughing_ , laughing hard and trying to suppress it, and Steve has no idea why. After several more seconds, Iron Man's breath catches. His eyes are wide, and he looks over at the half-empty pizza box, lying open on the counter. "Is this about the pizza? I know I didn't tip the guy in cash, but I'm not that stingy, I promise. I tipped on the card when I ordered. Liberally. Handsomely, even. Trust me, Cap, I gave him more than enough money."

Steve hadn't known that, and that does make him feel a bit better, but it still doesn't eliminate the underlying problem here.

"It's not about the pizza." Steve takes a breath and steels himself. "Look, I don't know what your financial situation is like, and I didn't want to say anything before, but-- the way I was raised, I learned to help people. We didn't have a lot, when I was growing up, but if there was someone you knew, someone you cared about, if they needed something -- well, you tried your best to help them out."

"And you think I need... money?" 

Iron Man sounds honestly curious, like he can't imagine how Steve arrived at this conclusion, when it seems so obvious to Steve.

Steve nods. "I don't mean to pry, Shellhead, but I know you work two jobs." _And Mr. Stark doesn't even like you_ , he doesn't say. "The Avengers pay me more than even I can spend, and I know they pay you the same salary that they pay me. It's in the bylaws. Mr. Stark is a generous man," he adds. "And since you're still working for him privately, you must need the money. So I'm just saying, I don't need everything I've got. I don't buy very much for myself. I have money saved. And I'm sure the Army must owe me some back pay." He frowns. "Probably a lot of back pay. I should check on that." He can't quite conceive of how much _a lot_ would be, these days. "You don't have to work for Mr. Stark if you're just doing it for the paycheck. I can help you out. I can make your life easier, if you'll let me."

Iron Man just watches him, silently. Steve doesn't understand what the problem is. Is he too proud to take Steve's money? Does he not want to tell Steve the reason he needs it so badly? He doesn't have to tell him that. It's not Steve's business.

Imploring, Steve holds out his hands. "You don't have to tell me why you need the money. It doesn't matter to me what you need it for. I'm not going to judge you or ask for an accounting of how you spend it. And I wouldn't ask you to repay me. It would just... be a gift. You can just have it. All you have to do is say yes."

_Let me take care of you_ , he doesn't say. But he wants to.

Iron Man looks away for a few seconds, like he's trying to figure out what to say, and then back at him. "You're very kind," he says, gently. "You're the kindest man I've ever known. No one's ever offered me anything like that before. I'm touched, I really am. But... I'm okay. I'm doing just fine. I don't need money."

He can't possibly ask Iron Man if he's sure. That would be insulting.

Steve tries to think this through. "So you're working for Mr. Stark... because you like working for him?"

He also can't tell Iron Man that Mr. Stark doesn't like him, because that would be downright cruel.

When he speaks, Iron Man's voice is tense. It's clearly a touchy subject. "Let's just say that, even if I stopped working for him, I'd still have enough money to get by, okay?" He huffs out a hissing breath. "I appreciate that you care. I really do. But I'm... solvent. Honest."

As far as Steve is concerned, Iron Man can do a lot better than just _get by_ , but Iron Man's already refused Steve's help. That means Steve should just let it drop.

"Okay," Steve says. "Okay. But if you change your mind, the offer's always open, all right? I love you and I want to help you."

Behind the mask, Iron Man's eyes lower. "You're really something else, Winghead."

* * *

After that, Steve and Iron Man are closer than ever. It's not that Steve hadn't felt close to him before -- of course he had -- but that conversation seems to have flipped some kind of switch in their relationship, and Iron Man just starts... telling him things. Oh, not his name. Not his civilian identity. But things Steve bets he hasn't told anyone else, and Steve thinks that's honestly even better. It's not like his name would mean anything to Steve. But everything else -- well, that means something.

One late night, they get to talking about religion: Iron Man tells him he's an atheist. Steve's a little surprised to hear it. He supposes it must be a more acceptable thing for people to admit to now, like being queer. But they both know an actual god, so he's not sure how Iron Man reconciles that. But it's clearly what he believes.

Steve supposes that's a no on raising future children Catholic. He's fine with that, though; it's not like they could even have a church wedding if they wanted one. He half-wonders when it got this serious. It should scare him, shouldn't it? But it doesn't. He just wants _more_. He wants everything.

The other tidbits of information are smaller, but no less personal: Iron Man likes dogs. Iron Man is left-handed. Iron Man is afraid of the dark. Steve savors every scrap of information.

And then one day, Steve comes down for breakfast and finds Mr. Stark in the kitchen.

If Steve had hackles, they'd be up, and he doesn't want to think that, but it's true. He hasn't seen Mr. Stark all that much since he and Iron Man started dating, and he doesn't know if Mr. Stark is purposefully going out of his way to avoid him -- which takes a lot of work, since they live in the same house -- but the last time he saw him was that disastrous conversation several weeks ago in which Mr. Stark suggested that Steve and Iron Man shouldn't be dating.

Mr. Stark is alone in the kitchen, standing next to the coffeemaker, empty mug dangling from his left hand. He's once again in a trim, tailored three-piece suit, the sort of outfit that looks like it costs more than Steve makes in a year.

Steve still doesn't know what to say to him.

He takes a deep breath. He thinks about walking away.

"Hey," Mr. Stark says, and Steve knows he's been spotted. "You can come here. It's okay." His voice is gentle, coaxing. 

Damn. Steve's fears must show on his face, somehow. He's never been a good liar. 

Putting his cup down, Mr. Stark presses his palms together in supplication. "You don't have to go, W-- Captain. I don't bite."

Steve waits for the obvious follow-up to the remark, perhaps a bit of flirtation. _I don't bite unless you ask nicely._ After all, Mr. Stark was the one who asked Steve out on a date. It's not as if Mr. Stark hasn't been interested in him. And all the papers have assured Steve that Mr. Stark knows how to charm people, whether or not there's any romantic intent.

But Mr. Stark doesn't say anything like that. He just smiles a very small smile and regards Steve attentively. He's waiting to see what Steve will do, Steve realizes.

Steve can do this. He takes a step forward, entering the room.

In response, in recompense, Mr. Stark beams at him. It's not the smile he wears for the press. This one is more real. This is the truth.

Steve doesn't know Mr. Stark well at all, but it seems like Mr. Stark is trying hard. Like he wants to be friends, even after the last conversation they had. Steve can at least hear him out. Steve can at least be in the same room as him. It won't kill him.

"So," Mr. Stark says, softly. "I owe you an apology."

That's the last thing Steve expected to hear. Steve blinks at him. "What?"

"An apology," Mr. Stark repeats. "You know, the thing you owe someone when you do something wrong."

Is he serious?

"I know what an apology is." Steve's voice wavers, uncertain. He doesn't want to sound cruel or cold. He doesn't want to ruin this. He's trying. "We had those in the forties." He attempts a smile.

It's definitely not a great joke, but Mr. Stark still grins back at him. He's got a lovely smile.

_It isn't wrong to notice that_ , Steve tells himself, firmly. _It's a free country_. And, sure, he may be with Iron Man, but he's only human, and Mr. Stark is attractive. It's not as if Steve's going to do anything about it. He's taken, but that doesn't mean he's blind.

"Well, then you should know that I owe you an apology." Mr. Stark sighs. "I wasn't very kind to you, the last time we talked. And I don't want you to think that I'm not happy for you and Iron Man, because I am. As far as I'm concerned, the two of you deserve every happiness in the world, and I am deeply sorry if I ever made you think otherwise."

Steve stares at him. "You're not-- you're not _jealous_?"

"Jealous?" Mr. Stark echoes, like he can't even imagine where Steve came up with that one.

Honestly, it hadn't occurred to Steve before, and he's not sure how it didn't, because now that he's said it it seems patently obvious as an explanation for his behavior.

"I turned you down," Steve points out. Sadness flashes into Mr. Stark's eyes, and he bites his lip. Yeah, that clearly means something to him. "I turned you down and started dating your bodyguard. I see how that could really, uh, grind your gears."

_You hate him._ Steve's not going to say that. But it works out to the same thing.

Mr. Stark swallows. His mouth opens and closes a few times, shaping silent syllables; he must need to work out exactly what to say.

"I'm not going to lie to you," he says. "Do I wish that events had transpired differently? Yes, of course. But I'm not going to hold it against you because you've found happiness with someone you love. I'm not going to hold it against Iron Man, either," he adds. "And I just-- I hope it works out for both of you. I wish you all the best."

Steve can't help but think about Iron Man's mysterious secrets, the things that both Mr. Stark and Iron Man have said should put him off Iron Man for good.

He doesn't need to know them. He doesn't even want to know them.

Uncomfortable, Steve coughs and shifts his weight. "I, uh. Thank you?"

Mr. Stark smiles. "I'm not your enemy, Captain. I just... hope you know that."

The coffeemaker is ready, then, and he holds up one finger, then turns around and pours himself a cup. He raises his eyebrows and tips his head in the direction of the coffee. The question is obvious.

"Oh!" Steve says. "Sure. That'd be great, thanks."

Mr. Stark reaches into the cabinet, extracts Steve's mug, and pours the coffee. When he hands it to Steve, their fingers brush.

The coffee's good. Mr. Stark always buys good coffee. Steve suspects it's also very expensive.

"See?" Mr. Stark's voice is gentle. "Nothing to be afraid of. I-- I want you to be happy. Even if it's not with me. That's the truth."

Steve can't help but ask. "Is it?"

"Of course," Mr. Stark says, but there's a longing in his eyes that belies his words. The papers haven't said he's with anyone new. Steve hopes that someday he can find someone who makes him happy. "I know we've never really gotten the chance to talk, but if you ever want to, the workshop door's always open for you."

It's a kind offer. Steve smiles. "That's good to know."

Steve starts to turn away, to assemble the rest of a meal as Mr. Stark walks past him, clearly absconding with his coffee. But Mr. Stark clears his throat and catches Steve's attention.

"Captain?"

Steve turns back. Mr. Stark's leaning on the doorframe. His eyes are sad.

"Yes?"

"I just... really hope he makes you happy," Mr. Stark says. "That's all."

"He does," Steve assures him. What else is there to say?

Steve can't tell Mr. Stark he would have said yes to him if he'd never met Iron Man. That won't help anything.

Mr. Stark's smile is still small and sad. "That's good," he says. "That's the point."

And then he's gone.

* * *

Next Wednesday will be six months to the day since Steve asked Iron Man to go out with him.

You wouldn't know it to look at Steve -- or so he flatters himself by thinking, even as he suspects that he is probably much more obvious than he thinks he is -- but he's a sentimental kind of guy. And six months, well, that's pretty big, isn't it?

Steve came of age in a war. He learned not to waste time. He learned not to wait around. If you're serious, if you have something good, you let your partner know how you feel. And he can't imagine anyone better than Iron Man.

He doesn't know exactly what to do to commemorate this anniversary, but surely the internet will know. The internet will have ideas. The internet will tell him what people do now. The internet may have let him down about dating Iron Man, but it can't possibly fail him again.

Steve settles himself in front of the computer, clicks on the search bar, and starts typing.

* * *

The workshop door is closed, and Steve can hear the faint strains of music on the other side. Mr. Stark said it was all right, Steve tells himself. Mr. Stark said he could come by anytime if he wanted to talk.

Well, Steve definitely wants to talk.

He takes a slow, shaking breath. He counts to three. He exhales. He shouldn't be this nervous, should he? This isn't even the hard part.

_Think positive_ , he tells himself. If he can get through this, maybe it means the hard part will be easier than he thinks it is. He just wishes he knew for certain what Iron Man will say -- but, well, there's only one way to find that out.

He raises his hand. He raps on the door.

On the other side of the door, the music decreases in volume.

"Yes?" Mr. Stark's voice is muffled, bland.

"It's Captain America," Steve calls back.

Mr. Stark's reply is now substantially brighter. "Captain! Come on in! Door's unlocked."

Steve opens the door and steps inside. The workshop is just as chaotic as it was the last time Steve was here. Mr. Stark's sitting on a stool on the other side of the closest bench to the door, facing Steve. He has a soldering iron in one hand and a circuit board spread out in front of him. If not for that one morning Steve had caught him at breakfast in a sweatshirt, he might have believed that Mr. Stark didn't own anything that wasn't a business suit, but here he is, once again dressed down. Mr. Stark's wearing blue jeans and that same old, worn MIT sweatshirt, as well as a pair of thick, heavy plastic safety glasses. His hair is sticking up. It's the least put-together Steve has ever seen him. It should be ugly, but somehow even like this, he's still charming. He looks like-- well, honestly, he looks like an engineer. He _is_ an engineer.

Steve wonders if this is what the real Tony Stark is like, the one who isn't in the newspapers and on the television.

Mr. Stark turns the soldering iron off, sets it to the side, and looks up. "Hi, Captain." He smiles. "What can I do for you? Did you have a special request for the mansion's grocery list this week? I can pass it on to Jarvis if you want; I think he's putting in the order now. Or is it Avengers business? Do you need me to build you something? If you give me a few minutes to finish this repulsor control assembly, I'm all yours."

Steve shakes his head. "None of the above." He shifts from foot to foot. He shoves half his hand into one of his belt pouches and then takes it out again. His stomach is in knots. "You said-- when I saw you last week, you told me that if I ever wanted to talk to you, I could. Did you mean that?"

Mr. Stark's brow furrows. He takes off the safety glasses and leaves them folded on the table. Running his hand through his already-disheveled hair, he slides off the stool, lands a little too heavily, and then comes around to the side of the workbench, a little closer to Steve. He leans on the bench. His body language is open, inviting. _You can talk to me_ , he says without words. _You can trust me._ Steve observes, distantly, that he's really good at that.

"I absolutely meant it." Mr. Stark's voice is gentle but fierce. He could practically give the Avengers lessons in how to comfort scared civilians. Steve's starting to feel like he personally could use some comfort. "So what's the matter, Captain? What's wrong?" He frowns. "Don't tell me that you and Iron Man are fighting. That would be terrible. I have a lot invested in the two of you."

"Oh, no, no!" Steve hastens to assure him. "Nothing like that! Iron Man's amazing. Nothing's wrong at all."

Relief flashes through Mr. Stark's eyes -- but then he frowns, clearly confused. "Then what's the problem?"

Steve takes a deep breath. He can do this. He can definitely do this. It's only a question. Heck, it's a question that Mr. Stark doesn't even need to say yes to. But it would sure be nice if he did.

"There's no problem at all," Steve begins. "I just-- I had a question for you."

Mr. Stark raises his eyebrows in invitation, waiting.

Steve swallows hard. "You-- you know a lot about Iron Man, right?"

Mr. Stark sighs. "St-- Cap-- I _can't_." His face is contorted in anguish, and that's when Steve realizes that Mr. Stark is answering an entirely different question from the one Steve is trying to ask. "Iron Man's identity is a secret. Revealing that kind of information to anyone, even you, would be a grave breach of his privacy and also an egregious violation of his trust. You're asking me to break a promise. If you want to know, you'll have to ask him yourself. I'm sorry."

"No, no!" Steve holds up his hands. "It's okay. That's not what I want to know."

Mr. Stark tilts his head to the side, mouth gone slack in astonishment. "It _isn't_?"

"Not at all." Steve licks his lips and tries again. "I just meant that, because you're the one who designs his armor, you must know a lot about how the armor fits him. You know his measurements."

Mr. Stark laughs, an amused little huff of air, as if he can't believe that Steve is so nervous about wanting to know something he obviously thinks is so inconsequential. "Is that all you want? Is that what all this fuss is about? Breathe, Cap." He smiles. "Sure. I mean, yeah, of course I can get you his measurements. What for? You looking to buy ol' Shellhead a nice sweater for Christmas?"

It's an appealing idea, and Steve will definitely have to file it away for later, but for right now--

"Actually," Steve says, with all the courage in him, "I'd like his ring size."

Silence fills the room. All the color drains out of Mr. Stark's face. Steve watches in mounting horror. He never thought it could go this badly. He's going about this all wrong. He didn't mean it to sound like a demand. And he nearly forgot the rest of what he wanted to say. He wants to do this properly. He's not quite sure if they still do this in this century, but this is how he was raised. He's never proposed to anyone before -- and hopefully he never will again, God willing -- and he wants to get everything right. He only has one shot at this.

"And I'd also like your blessing," Steve finally manages to say. He forces out a nervous smile. "I, uh. I kind of have the impression that Iron Man doesn't have much in the way of living relatives, or I'd have tried to ask them. And so I figured that, the way I see it, you're the next best thing to his kin. The two of you must be pretty close. It would-- it would really mean a lot to me, Mr. Stark."

Mr. Stark still isn't saying anything. His mouth is hanging open, his eyebrows raised; he's making abortive attempts at speech, but nothing is emerging. Eventually his lips press together and open again, shaping the silent word: _me?_

This is awful. Steve can't stand to look at him any longer. He focuses his gaze instead on the abandoned circuit board on the workbench that Mr. Stark is leaning heavily on. That seems safer.

"I asked the internet," Steve continues, and God, God, he's babbling, he doesn't even know what he's saying anymore. "They say the internet knows everything, so I asked it, I typed it right in, I asked it, _how do you propose to a robot_ , and I-- I know Iron Man's not a robot, of course I know he isn't, but I thought maybe there would be some similarities -- but the internet only told me about research grant proposals for robotics labs, and that wasn't what I wanted to know at all."

Mr. Stark makes a strangled noise that might be a laugh. Steve can't bear to look at him.

"I don't even know how this works," he concludes, helpless, embarrassed, frustrated. "Do I get him a ring that goes outside the armor? Do I get him a ring that goes on his actual finger? Do I get him a ring at all? I-- I don't know how a man proposes to another man. I don't know how to do any of this. I just know that I want to."

The sound Mr. Stark makes now isn't a laugh; in fact, it sounds more like a groan. Of actual, physical pain.

When Steve snaps his head up, Mr. Stark's face is a sallow, sickly yellow-gray. Sweat beads on his skin. And he has a hand pressed to his chest. Something's very wrong with him.

"Mr. Stark!" Steve calls out, alarmed. "Are you all right?"

Holding out his hands, he takes a step closer, but Mr. Stark waves him away.

As Mr. Stark leans on the workbench for balance, he stumbles backwards and around the edge of the table, back to his stool, and he sits down hard. He leans to one side, and Steve hears a drawer rattle. A few seconds later, Mr. Stark is fumbling with a bottle of pills, his hands shaking.

"Don't mind me," Mr. Stark pants. "I'm just gonna -- oh God -- I'm just gonna sit here for a few minutes and chew an aspirin or two. I'll be fine." He bares his teeth. It's probably supposed to be a smile.

He opens the bottle, shoves a pill into his mouth, and starts chewing. Then he takes a second one.

He definitely doesn't _look_ fine.

"You just stay right there," Steve tells him. "I'll call you a doctor--"

"Don't!" Mr. Stark practically shouts, a cry of distress. "Please. No doctors. Please."

If he passes out, Steve is going to call a doctor, no matter what Mr. Stark has to say about it. He's not about to watch Mr. Stark dying in front of him and do nothing about it.

"Okay," Steve agrees. It's technically not a lie. He's not calling a hospital right now.

After a few more seconds of labored breathing, Mr. Stark reaches back into the drawer and pulls out a bottle of water. He starts sipping it. Steve supposes he must be done with his aspirin.

Steve doesn't know what he's supposed to do. He stands there. He waits. He counts time by the pounding of blood in his head.

It takes a few minutes, but eventually the color starts to return to Mr. Stark's face. He's clearly feeling better, as he laughs ruefully and drops the aspirin bottle back in the drawer.

"I'm sorry about that," he says, finally, like he honestly thinks he did something wrong -- and Steve doesn't think he's apologizing for refusing lifesaving medical treatment. "I really am. I didn't mean to do that. I just don't-- I don't handle surprises well."

Oh. He thinks he's being _inconvenient_. Is he joking? That's ridiculous.

"Then I'm also sorry," Steve says. "I didn't mean to surprise you that badly. If I'd known, I'd have gone about this differently."

He thought it would be good. He thought everything would be fine. There's no way that Mr. Stark's going to be kindly disposed to a man who has just scared him half to death, literally.

But Mr. Stark smiles. "It's all right. I was just surprised, is all. I wasn't expecting it. No one's ever said anything like that to me before. I didn't, um. I didn't know things were that way between you and Iron Man. I mean, I knew you liked the guy, but I didn't know this. I didn't know you were this serious about him." There's a kind of awe in his eyes now, and Steve has no idea what to make of this.

"Well," Steve says, wrong-footed but nonetheless full of determination, "I'm very serious."

"Yes," Mr. Stark agrees. He still looks overwhelmed. "I see that." He pauses. "Isn't it a little soon?"

Steve frowns. "Soon?"

It doesn't seem soon to him. He used to know plenty of fellas who'd proposed pretty damn fast, right before they'd shipped out, to have someone to come home to, and none of them ever seemed to have any complaints. Hell, Bucky'd always nagged him about how he'd never gotten down on one knee for Betsy. Steve supposes he'd just been waiting for the right person to come along.

"These days," Mr. Stark says, gently, "if you get engaged in under a year or so, people tend to assume one of you is pregnant. Though, unless either you or Iron Man have some information about yourself that you've never told me -- which would be fine, to be clear, I'm not judging here -- I don't think that possibility is very likely."

"Uh." Steve's face is hot. "No. That's not, um, an issue here."

He wanted to do everything right. But if what Mr. Stark is saying is the truth, then it's the wrong time to ask. He hasn't even started and he's still doing it wrong. Is Iron Man really going to want a dinosaur like him, a man from the wrong century? What if he doesn't?

Regardless, Mr. Stark definitely seems intent on putting him off. 

"Do you even know how you're going to do this?" Mr. Stark asks. "Iron Man has a secret identity. What are you going to do about that, exactly? Is he going to sign the marriage license as _Iron Man_? How in the world are you going to have a ceremony? _Now you may kiss the faceplate?_ "

The words are cruel, mocking, but the oddest thing is that Mr. Stark doesn't _sound_ cruel, saying them; he just sounds... sad? He's staring off into the middle distance, eyes unfocused, mouth tight with pain, like he thinks he's somehow in the middle of an entirely different conversation, a conversation that's much more distressing than this one should be.

And he's certainly doing his level best to increase Steve's distress, at any rate.

Steve takes a deep breath. He doesn't know why Mr. Stark is doing this, but he's not going to let it get to him.

"I'll figure it out." Steve's throat is tight. "If he says yes, everything else is just details. We'll find a way. I'm sure of it. The important part is whether he says yes. That's what matters. That's the only thing that matters."

It should be simple. It _is_ simple. He loves Iron Man. Iron Man loves him. He can't imagine wanting to be with anyone else in his entire life. And now he just has to find out if Iron Man feels the same way. That's all.

The smallest of smiles curves across Mr. Stark's face. "That's very sweet, but there are, in fact, a few other things that matter."

"Oh?"

Mr. Stark looks up, and his eyes meet Steve's, his gaze hard and unwavering. It surprises Steve, because he's found, over the years, that not a lot of people are willing to stand up to Captain America and tell him they think he's wrong. He certainly hadn't thought Mr. Stark would be one of them.

Apparently Mr. Stark is one of them.

"I know I've told you this before." Mr. Stark's voice is cold, harsh; his eyes are like clouded ice. "But maybe this time you'll listen to me. I'm telling you this because you're making a mistake. There are things about Iron Man that you don't know--" he holds up one finger, stabbing the air, trying to forestall the objection that he already knows Steve is going to make-- "and I know you think they're not important, but they _are_. If you knew everything I know about him, you wouldn't want him anymore. You wouldn't love him anymore. I can promise you that. Believe me. There are good reasons not to marry him."

The ice of Mr. Stark's regard has melted, and there's something lonely in his eyes now, something sad and bitter and alone, and Steve has no idea why Mr. Stark is doing this. He has no idea why Mr. Stark feels like this. He doesn't understand what's going on.

But, God, he _hates_ it.

"Well, then?" Steve snaps. It's not particularly kind of him -- but then, neither is Mr. Stark, right now. "Come on. Out with it. Tell me."

Mr. Stark's gaze falters, and he blinks up at Steve several times, confused, like the chips are down and he'd never in a million years expected Steve to want to call his bluff.

"What?"

Steve takes a few strides forward, puts his hands on the workbench, leans in. He knows he's a big man. He knows he has _presence_. He knows he's intimidating. He never thought he'd use that against anyone who wasn't a supervillain, but he can't bring himself to feel sorry about it now. Now, he's just plain _mad_. His nerves sing with righteous fury. It's like stepping onto the battlefield.

He wants the truth. And he wants Mr. Stark to see that, no matter what the truth is, it's not going to make him love Iron Man any less. It can't. Because nothing can.

"Are you going to tell me what you know?" Steve repeats. "Are you going to let me in on whatever the deep dark secret is that you think will ruin Iron Man for me forever? Where's your list of reasons, Mr. Stark?" He can feel his mouth twitching, twisting, trying to smile. It's not a nice smile. "You know what they say, right? _Speak now or forever hold your peace._ "

Mr. Stark's throat works. A muscle in his jaw quivers. The look in his eyes is pure desolation. And then he speaks.

"Iron Man's not good enough for you."

Is he serious? He can't possibly be serious. This can't be happening. Steve steps back, shuts his eyes, and shakes his head violently; when he opens them again, the world is as he left it, and Mr. Stark's still sitting there on the other side of the table.

"So that's it, then," Steve says, flatly. "That's what it is. You're jealous."

After everything Mr. Stark had said the last time Steve talked to him, after all his well-wishing, it comes down to this. Mr. Stark is upset that Iron Man is the one who's with Steve. Which is perfectly understandable, given that Steve rejected him, but the fact that Mr. Stark felt he had to lie about it up until now is absolutely _insulting_.

Mr. Stark looks like he wants to laugh and cry at the same time. "You'd think that, wouldn't you?" he murmurs to himself. "I know what it looks like," he continues, a little louder. "But, no. I'm not jealous."

Another lie. It has to be. There's no other possible explanation.

Steve can try one more time. He can try to give Mr. Stark a chance to explain himself.

"Then what?" Steve asks.

But Mr. Stark evades the question once again. "This isn't what it looks like," he says. There's a small, enigmatic smile on his lips, and his eyes are too reflective, bright with unshed tears. He really is about to cry, and this doesn't make any sense. "None of this is what it looks like."

So much for that. Steve's done all he can do here. He takes another step back.

"I love Iron Man with all of my heart." Steve's voice rings out. "And he _is_ good enough for me. I would have liked it if you'd actually been happy for us. I'm sorry you can't see him the way I see him."

Turning, Steve takes another step toward the doorway. Somewhere behind him, the stool Mr. Stark is sitting on rattles. Steve ignores it.

"Steve."

Mr. Stark's never used his first name before.

Despite himself, Steve turns back. "Yes?"

Mr. Stark's on his feet now. He's a little shaky, but he's still standing. And somehow he's still smiling. But his lips waver. He's clearly on the verge of tears.

"Nine," he says. His voice is hoarse.

Steve squints at him. "Nine what?"

Mr. Stark holds up his left hand, with the back of his hand facing Steve. Several unpleasant-looking scars mar his skin; he looks like he once had a fight with a blowtorch and lost. Then he wiggles his bare ring finger, illustratively, and that's when Steve gets it.

"Size nine," Mr. Stark rasps. "You'll want something non-conductive. Not metal. Ceramic or silicone are your best bets. Maybe carbon fiber."

Dumbfounded, Steve just stares. He doesn't understand what's going on. Mr. Stark told Steve they shouldn't marry, insulted Iron Man, and is now giving him Iron Man's ring size? None of this makes any sense.

Still, Steve supposes Mr. Stark is giving him his blessing, in his own way.

He inclines his head. "Thank you."

"Good luck." Mr. Stark's smile is thin and wan. "You're going to need it."

* * *

By the time Steve makes it back upstairs to his room, he's starting to feel the way he does after staggering off one battlefield only to learn that there's another one awaiting him. The talk with Mr. Stark had been rougher than he'd expected, and he still doesn't know what all of that was about -- but in the end Mr. Stark had come around, hadn't he? He'd given Steve Iron Man's ring size. He could have said no, and he said yes. That has to be a good sign, doesn't it?

But now, of course, Steve has to ask Iron Man himself, and that means -- or, at least, it might mean, Steve isn't sure about this one either -- that he should show up with a ring.

He knows that this part should be easier than the last -- or at least, it should definitely go more smoothly -- but right now it's more than a little frightening in its immensity. It's a big step, after all. Anyone with sense would be a bit scared no matter what, wouldn't they?

He sits down at his desk, takes a few fortifying breaths, and then nudges his computer awake. The internet has rings. The internet will either sell him rings or know where he can buy them. The internet cannot possibly fail him this time.

It's time to go shopping.

Iron Man will say yes, won't he? Sure, he could think it's too soon -- Mr. Stark had certainly thought it was -- but Iron Man knows him better than Mr. Stark does, and Steve hopes that means Iron Man will understand if he's asking sooner than folks these days do. Surely Iron Man will understand that it's a sign of Steve's love. He'll understand how much Steve loves him. Steve just wants to do right by him. He just wants to make them both happy.

Steve brings up a blank Google search page and pulls the keyboard a little closer. What materials had Mr. Stark mentioned? He'd said ceramic first; maybe then that's the best choice. Steve starts typing in his question: _where do I buy men's ceramic wedding rings_ \--

And then there's a knock on the door.

Steve freezes. His heart races, his hand jerks on the mouse, and he accidentally closes the browser window, which is probably for the best, as no one else needs to know right now what he's doing. He can tell other people later, after Iron Man says yes. But this is private. This is secret. And Mr. Stark is presumably well-mannered enough not to go around telling other people Steve's secrets. So it's going to be okay.

"Who is it?" he calls out.

"It's me."

The voice on the other side of the door definitely belongs to Iron Man, but even with the vocal filters, Steve can tell there's something _wrong_ about it. Iron Man's breaths are loud, heavy exhalations, fuzzing the speakers, like he's been running. His voice is raspy. Is he sick? Is he injured? What's happened to him?

All thoughts of romantic proposals slide out of Steve's mind as he leaps out of his seat, runs to the door, unlocks the deadbolt, and clumsily wrenches it open hard enough to rattle the hinges.

Iron Man has one hand braced on the doorframe, leaning on it for support. His eyes are glassy and bloodshot, his gaze not quite tracking right. The slivers of bare skin Steve can see around them, framed in the narrow windows of the eye-slits, don't look any better: his skin is alternately patchy with blood in some places and then far too pale in others.

"Shellhead, what's the matter?" Steve asks. "Come here."

He holds out a hand, an offer of support, of intimacy, but Iron Man dodges him, weaving, stumbling as he takes a few steps forward and inside; Steve has to step back so Iron Man doesn't trip over him. He sure looks like he's about to fall over at any second.

Iron Man shoves the door shut behind himself and then leans back on it for a second or two, before he pulls himself up to his full armored height, and that seems to take all the energy he's got. He's really not well, is he?

He finally meets Steve's gaze. "We need to talk." Iron Man's voice is flat, hard, forceful. "We need to talk _right now_."

"What?" Steve asks, confused. "Why?"

_We need to talk._ That's not a good sentence, is it? The team had been watching TV a few months ago, and when the woman on-screen had said that very phrase to someone who was presumably her boyfriend, Jan had rolled her eyes and called it _a terrible cliché_. She'd sighed and changed the channel just as the woman had been starting to explain to her boyfriend how she'd caught him cheating on her.

_We need to talk._ That's what you say now if you're breaking up with someone.

Icy sweat forms beads on Steve's clammy skin. His head is spinning. His heart pounds. He feels ill. He feels faint. He doesn't think he's ever felt this poorly since before the serum.

He thought they were okay. Better than okay. For God's sake, he's been planning to _propose_. How could he have been this wrong?

"Are you," he chokes out. He can hardly speak. "Are you leaving me?"

The world is lonely and cold and closing in on him. He'll never be warm again. He can't feel his fingers. His face is going numb.

"I'm here to stop you from doing something you're going to regret for the rest of your life," Iron Man says, tightly. That isn't a yes or a no, but it's sure not a great thing to hear under any circumstances.

Iron Man's gaze now is sharp, penetrating, incisive, and as Steve stares back at him in horror he has the terrible thought: _he knows_.

The picture is all too easy to paint: Steve told Mr. Stark he was going to propose to Iron Man, and for some reason, God knows why, Mr. Stark turned right around and told Iron Man about it, and now Iron Man is here to call everything off. But it can't be. That can't be what's happening now.

Yes, Mr. Stark may have had some unkind things to say about Iron Man, but surely even the cruelest man wouldn't do that. This has to be about something else. It has to. He _wouldn't have_.

Iron Man blows out a heavy breath. "I'm selfish," he begins. His voice is trembling. "When you asked me out, I should have said no. It would have been the right thing to do. The responsible thing to do."

This is terrible. Steve doesn't want to hear this. There's nowhere he can go. He can't escape this.

"But I-- I loved you too much," Iron Man continues. His eyes fall shut; he's just barely holding back tears. "I loved you too much, and I wanted you too much, and you made me so happy, and I was so lonely. So I lied to myself. I told myself it would be okay to just... have you, just for a little while. I told myself I'd show restraint. I told myself there were lines I wasn't going to cross. I told myself I'd stop before we went too far, before we got too close. I told myself I'd come clean then. I'd tell you the truth. And if I couldn't do that, I'd probably just leave you, and that would be the end of it." He's crying in earnest now; a muffled sob comes through the speakers.

"Shellhead, no--"

Steve doesn't understand a thing about what's going on. All he knows is that Iron Man's hurting, and he can't abide that.

"And somehow we're past the point of no return," Iron Man rasps. "It's too late. It's too late for this to be easy. It's far, far too late for anything good to come of this. I should have told you before it got this far. And I'm so, so sorry. I never wanted to hurt you. But it's too late for that. And you need to know. You need to know the truth about me. And I know -- I know _for a fact_ \-- that you won't love me anymore, but that's-- that's okay. That's what I deserve."

It's so much like everything that Mr. Stark has been trying to tell Steve about Iron Man that Steve thinks it can't possibly be a coincidence.

"You talked to Mr. Stark, didn't you?"

Mr. Stark must have told him. He must have told him what Steve's planning. No other explanation is possible. There's something aching and hollow in Steve's chest.

Whatever Mr. Stark told Iron Man about himself, it _isn't true_. Whatever Iron Man's secret is, it won't change how Steve feels about him.

Iron Man laughs, a quiet sad little sound. There are still tears in his eyes. "In about ten seconds," Iron Man says, "you're going to see why that's entirely the wrong question."

Iron Man's gaze drops; he's staring down at his own hands. And then he does a curious thing: he sets two fingers to the thickened edge of the gauntlet on his other hand, to the band of crimson metal halfway down his arm. And then he does something Steve can't quite make out, an intricate movement of his fingers. There's a quiet click, and then the entire gauntlet starts to... retract? The striated metal begins to fold in on itself, as the whole gauntlet, repulsor node and all, draws itself backwards and up into the cuff, and Steve is left staring at Iron Man's hand.

At Iron Man's _bare_ hand.

Steve's never seen Iron Man's hands before; he's never seen any part of him out of the armor. Iron Man's skin is olive-toned, but under the shade of his complexion he's too pale; he's clearly not all right. Iron Man flexes his wrist, back and forth. His palm is covered with a patchwork of thin scars. Some are old. Others are newer. After a second or two, he slides his bare hand to the cuff of the other gauntlet, flips whatever hidden switch it has, and the other gauntlet likewise retracts as the process repeats.

Both his hands are scarred.

That shouldn't be unusual; in fact, Steve should have expected it. Iron Man told him he survived a shrapnel hit to the chest. The scars should, in fact, be a hell of a lot worse than just this. They probably are, elsewhere.

But the oddest thing of all is that Iron Man's hands look _familiar_. And that, that definitely shouldn't be possible. Steve's never laid eyes on any part of Iron Man that wasn't fully shrouded in either fabric or metal. There should be nothing for Steve to recognize. There can't be. But Steve can't shake the feeling that he _knows_ him, somehow.

Iron Man's fingers knot together, twisting up in anxiety. "I know I'm not anyone you really want," Iron Man says, hoarsely. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry that I can't be someone who actually makes you happy."

He reaches up. His fingers slide across his jawline, pressing into notches at the base of his helmet. Metal clicks and unlocks, and it's then that Steve realizes what's happening, as Iron Man lifts the helmet away.

If Steve were a better man, he wouldn't want to know. He'd shut his eyes now.

He doesn't.

And then Mr. Stark is staring back at him.

Mr. Stark looks like hell. He looks like he's been crying his eyes out since Steve saw him last. He probably has been. His face is awful and blotchy, still alarmingly gray everywhere it isn't bright red. His eyes are red-rimmed. Half his hair is mussed from the helmet, and the other half is plastered to his skull with sweat. Broken blood vessels dot his cheeks, and rivulets of tears shine in the light.

He's the last person Steve was ever expecting to see.

Dumbfounded, Steve can't do anything but stare at him and state the obvious. " _Mr. Stark?_ "

"You've had your tongue in my mouth," Mr. Stark says. His voice is a dry rasp; his lips twist. "I think you can call me Tony."

It's a cruel thing to say, reductive and trivializing, as if the only thing that they ever meant to each other in the past six months was an excuse for French kissing. It's not true. Iron Man means far more than that to Steve, and he knows the reverse is true as well. He knows Mr. Stark -- _Tony_ \-- is only saying this because he's upset, because he's scared, because he's trying to push Steve away. But knowing that doesn't make the words sting any less.

Tony Stark is Iron Man. It seems almost impossible to believe. Thirty seconds ago, Steve knew two distinctly different men -- one his best friend in this time, his teammate, his beloved, and the other a more distant acquaintance, a genius engineer, his team benefactor, his landlord. And now he knows that they're one and the same.

Every time he thought he was with Iron Man, he was with Tony Stark. And vice versa.

Good lord, what must Tony think of him?

"I can't believe I thought you were _broke_ ," Steve blurts out, stupidly. It's probably not the first thing he should have thought of. He's sure the rest of it will hit him eventually. His face is hot. No wonder Iron Man had been trying so hard not to laugh. "You must think I'm such an idiot. Oh, God, I tried to give money to _a millionaire_."

"Billionaire, actually," Tony corrects him. "With a _b_." His reply is absent, pro forma; Steve imagines that he's issued this emendation hundreds of times, to hundreds of people. Steve's not special. Tony's gaze is unfocused, drifting, like he's not paying attention to the real substance of Steve's comment. 

Then Tony blinks and draws himself up with a clatter of metal, and Steve supposes he was listening after all.

Tony holds out his hand, the one that isn't cradling the helmet, fingers splayed like he's trying to stop Steve, but his palm is facing the floor. It's a reflex, Steve realizes. No, not just a reflex. Trigger discipline. Tony wears the armor every day. If he had the gauntlets on, he wouldn't want to point his hands at anything he wouldn't want to shoot.

Steve never noticed. He never knew he was supposed to notice. He's been so stupid. His throat is tight, and he hears himself make a soft noise of anguish and embarrassment.

"Shh, shh, no!" Tony says. His distress is plain to see. His eyes are wide, pained. "Don't be like that. You have absolutely nothing to be ashamed of. I thought it was so sweet that you wanted to give me money." His mouth quirks. He has a very expressive mouth. Steve is abruptly, acutely aware of the fact that he's kissed him. A lot.

"Sweet?" Steve echoes, disbelieving.

Tony chuckles. "Sure, of course," he says. "It's not an offer anyone else I've known has ever made me, I can tell you that much. It had sheer novelty going for it. And you're-- you're _immensely_ kind. I sort of liked the idea of being a kept man. Your kept man." He sounds oddly wistful, longing -- like he knows he's joking but at the same time, some part of him honestly, truly wants that -- and it makes Steve's stomach do a somersault.

Steve's face is burning. "Well," he says, wrong-footed, sheepish. "We both know I can't keep you in the style to which you're accustomed."

Tony's smile is gentle, even though he's still a tear-stained mess. "Seriously, though. I think you're the only person I've ever met who I can be absolutely certain never liked me for my money. It was nice." He sighs. The smile fades. "It was all true, you know. Everything I told you. Obviously I didn't tell you... who I was, but I've never lied to you. For what it's worth. And I've told you a hell of a lot of things I never thought I would tell anyone else."

A hideous connection clicks into place inside Steve's head. "You have a heart condition."

He knew Iron Man had a heart condition. But he didn't know about Tony.

Tony blinks at him. "Yes?" he says, uncomprehending. "I told you that."

"You have a _heart condition_ ," Steve repeats, as dread curls into him, "and I just-- I just _gave you a heart attack_ , and then you put on, what, easily a hundred pounds of armor, and you ran up two flights of stairs--"

Tony's taut, pinched expression, oddly, relaxes at Steve's complaint, as if he had been expecting something much worse, as if he wants to say _oh, is that all?_ "Technically," Tony begins, with an exquisitely-precise tone that Steve has heard out of Iron Man's mouth during countless Avengers meetings, "you didn't give me a heart attack. Stress cardiomyopathy is actually an entirely different phenomenon that happens to present with similar symptoms--"

"For God's sake," Steve says, frustrated, "will you please just _lie down_? The bed's right there." He points with a jerk of his chin. "Please. For me."

Something in Tony's face softens when Steve says _for me_ , as if anything Steve desires will be his undoing. "All right," Tony murmurs, acquiescing. "All right, Winghead. Since you asked." The nickname falls easily from his lips; Steve's first thought is that he's never heard Tony say it before, and then he realizes that of course he has.

Tony strides across the room, sets his helmet down on Steve's nightstand with a resounding clank, and then sits on the edge of Steve's bed. The frame creaks alarmingly in protest, but it holds Tony's armored weight as he stretches out on his back atop the duvet, boots and all.

Tony raises his eyebrows. "Happy now?" 

His tone suggests that he doesn't expect anything about him to make Steve happy, and Steve's not sure why. Steve loves him. Tony has to know that. Steve must be missing a few pieces of the puzzle.

"Yes," Steve says, simply.

Tony just stares. Eyebrows still raised, he sprawls back onto Steve's pillows, artfully, like he wouldn't know how not to be graceful if he tried.

Steve can feel his face go hot. He can't stop looking at Tony, in his shining armor, in Steve's very own bed. It's deeply satisfying in a way that Steve isn't sure there are words for, seeing Tony here, like this. "I mean," Steve adds, "this wasn't really how I imagined getting you into my bed, but I'll take it."

That hadn't come out right. Steve's not very good with words.

Tony's mouth tilts a little, a sad smile, and that's definitely not what Steve wants to see at all.

"You're the only person I've ever told, you know?" he says, softly. "You're not the only person who knows, though. Happy figured it out on his own, bless him. He nearly gave it away the last time you saw him, but I don't think you noticed. That's it. Just you two." He pauses. "The only other person who knew-- he passed away."

Steve frowns. "Your... father?"

Iron Man had said his father was dead. So Tony's father is dead. If Steve had been the kind of fella who gave a damn about celebrity gossip, he'd probably have known that already. He didn't.

"No," Tony says, softly. "No, my parents were already dead by then. Car accident." He sighs. "About three years ago now, when I'd had SI for about a year, I went to Afghanistan as a consultant for the military. I tripped over a landmine and was captured and imprisoned." His gaze is very far away. "My cellmate was a professor by the name of Ho Yinsen. He helped me design and build the first version of the chestplate, to keep my heart beating, as well as the first version of Iron Man. He died to buy me time. I-- I took the suit and ran. And that's how I became Iron Man. That's the truth."

Steve wants to hold him. He's not sure Tony wants him to, anymore.

"And what did Tony Stark do while this was happening?"

He doesn't mean to think of Tony as two people. He's clearly not succeeding.

It's an adjustment.

He needs to adjust faster.

"Him?" Tony snorts. "What do you think? He took a long vacation and decided to hire a bodyguard when he got home. Coincidentally, he met a very nice guy named Iron Man who happened to be looking for a job."

"And you're your own bodyguard," Steve concludes. "And no one notices." The words taste sour. "I sure didn't."

Tony's mouth works like he wants to apologize but doesn't know where to begin. "I didn't want you to. I made sure you only got to know one of me." He half-smiles. "So you see, I wasn't jealous of Iron Man. Except I was, I suppose." He sighs. "Iron Man was the one you loved."

He remembers the way Tony looked at him when he said _Iron Man's not good enough for you_.

"You don't like yourself much, do you?" Steve asks, finally, and that's not what he wants to say either.

Tony's laugh is mostly air. "You already knew that."

Some of the color is starting to come back to Tony's face, but he still looks like hell. He looks away from Steve, staring at nothing, and for a split second he looks so _alone_ that Steve can hardly stand it. Tony's lying there, exposed, bare in his armor, surrounded by metal, and no one's touching him. No one ever touches him. That was what he said.

Before Steve is really conscious of what he's doing, he's halfway across the room, and perching himself on the edge of the bed next to Tony. The bed creaks even more.

"Steve?" Tony's eyes cloud with confusion as Steve twists halfway around to face him. "What are you doing?"

"Sitting next to you," Steve says. "But if you don't want me to, I can-- I can go."

On one hand, it would be strange if Tony wanted to kick him out of his own room. On the other, it would definitely not be the strangest thing that has happened to Steve in the past half hour alone.

Tony bites his lip. "But you don't even _like_ me."

This right here, this is the part that doesn't make any sense. "Of course I like you," Steve says. "Why would you think I don't like you?" Steve told him he wanted to _marry him_. Okay, so Steve hadn't exactly been intending for him to know that quite yet, but the sentiment remains unchanged.

Apparently that's not how Tony sees it.

"Do I really have to spell it out?" Tony's mouth twists. "Fine. I guess I do. I asked you out. You turned me down, in favor of... a person you thought wasn't me. And now the person you thought you were in love with is, in reality, someone you've already rejected. I already know what you think of me. And I know you've been upset with me. I'm not blind. I know when I'm not wanted. Why do you think you've barely seen me around, out of the armor?" He's biting his lip again. "But I knew I had to confess when I found out about your... intentions. I wasn't about to let you make that mistake. I'm not _that_ much of an asshole."

Steve just stares. "Who says it's a mistake?"

Tony stops breathing for a good five seconds. The smallest spark of hope kindles in his eyes. "Steve?"

"I was upset," Steve says, very carefully, "because I thought _you_ didn't like _Iron Man_. But it turns out that there's one fewer person in that relationship than I thought there was. I'm still upset that you don't like _yourself_ , but that's different." He shuts his eyes. He can't look at Tony and say this part. He's not that brave. "And I couldn't have said this before, obviously, but if-- if Iron Man hadn't existed, I would have said yes to you. Without hesitation. I-- I wanted you then. I still do."

He can't bring himself to open his eyes. He waits in silence, in darkness. And then there's a point of warmth on the back of Steve's hand.

Tony is touching him.

Steve opens his eyes. Tony's left hand is atop his, two long fingers resting just beneath Steve's knuckles. The burn on the back of Tony's hand is an old wound, scarred and knotted, the flesh drawn up in a starburst. The pads of his fingers are thick with calluses. He's an engineer, all right. Steve likes that. Tony knows what work is. Tony saves the world with his very hands.

He'd wondered why Iron Man had never even let him see his hands, but he knows now that it would have been a dead giveaway.

"This is me," Tony says, softly. "This is what there is underneath all the masks. If you're looking for the man from the magazines, you're going to be disappointed."

"I was looking for my best friend, actually," Steve says. "Maybe you've seen him around."

When Steve looks up, Tony smiles a watery smile. "I'll see what I can do about that one."

Steve turns his hand over, so now Tony's fingers lie in the center of his palm, and he closes his hand over them, delicately. Tony breathes in, short and sharp.

"You have beautiful hands," Steve tells him.

Tony scoffs. "You're not required to lie to me."

In reply, Steve lifts Tony's hand, his grip loose enough that Tony could slip away if he wanted, and he presses Tony's fingers to his lips. His fingers are a little colder than they should be -- everyone's are, to Steve -- but Steve suspects that's leftover from the heart attack. Tony's fingers are softer than Steve was expecting; sure, there are scars, but Tony's skin is supple, lightly perfumed with lotion. He takes care of himself. He knows how to be both weapon and comfort. If he touched Steve, he'd be gentle.

Steve exhales across Tony's skin and feels him shiver. He hears Tony breathe, a noisy, shuddering hitch of a breath.

"This seem like I'm lying to you?" Steve murmurs. He lets himself nuzzle Tony's fingertips.

"Don't know," Tony says, on another shaky exhale. There's a flash of an unsteady smile, one Steve's never seen in the magazines. His eyes are wide and dark. "Which answer will get you to keep doing that?"

Steve's not going to torture him. He presses Tony's trembling fingers to his cheek. "All you have to do is ask," he whispers. "You can have me. You can have anything you want from me. Everything you want."

"Mmm." Tony's brow furrows, and his face darkens a little. "Would you believe me if I told you that generally hasn't been how my life goes?"

He knows why Tony's asking. He knows a lot of people wouldn't believe that, merely because of who Tony is -- because he's rich, famous, handsome, brilliant. A man like that must lack nothing. But Steve knows Tony -- or rather, he knows Iron Man, so he knows Tony. _I'm not a happy person_ , Iron Man had confided, and no amount of money can fix that. Steve doesn't know what he can do about that except be here, and give Tony what he wants. And that's what he'll do.

"Maybe I'd like to see if I can improve it," Steve returns.

Tony's smile is heartbreakingly sweet. Obviously hungry for more of Steve's touch, he props himself up with his other arm, trying to get himself closer -- and then his elbow, still coated in slick golden metal, slips out from under him and he crashes back onto the mattress, his hand falling away from Steve's grasp.

"Sorry," Tony says, his eyes downcast. "I, uh. The armor's not really designed for this."

It's a factual explanation, and Steve's positive Tony doesn't mean anything else by it, and furthermore that he definitely doesn't mean for Steve's brain to hop, skip, and jump down a chain of inferences to come up with a solution.

But now Steve can't stop picturing it.

"You could. Um." Steve's throat is desert-dry. "You could get a little more comfortable, if you wanted. I wouldn't mind."

His face is hot. He knows he doesn't have even a tenth of Tony Stark's charm. How can he hope to compete with Tony Stark, famed playboy? He can't quite believe he actually said it. 

On the plus side, it looks like _Tony_ doesn't have a tenth of Tony Stark's charm either, because he's staring at Steve like Steve's just smacked him in the face with his shield.

It's oddly reassuring. At least Steve's not the only awkward one in the room.

"Me?" Tony says, at last. "Really? You-- you want-- _me_?"

"Is it that unbelievable that I might want to look at you?" Steve knows he's still blushing, but he manages to ask the question anyway. Surely Tony's well aware that people find him attractive. Surely it can't be that strange that Steve, who loves him, is one of them.

"I believe you when you say you want to," Tony admits, "but, like I said, you know more about me than most people do, and I wasn't kidding about the shrapnel. It's, uh. It's not actually all that pretty, underneath the armor. Not anymore."

Oh. He really thinks Steve cares about a few scars? Clearly so.

"If you don't want to," Steve says, "then of course I don't want you to do anything you don't want to do."

Tony's teeth worry at his lip. "I didn't say I didn't want to," he says, softly. "I just-- I want-- can you--" He stops, tangled up in words, and picks out four. "Be nice to me?"

He says it like he's ashamed of wanting kindness. Like he thinks no one would ever offer him it. Steve wonders who the hell he used to take to bed.

"Of course," Steve says. "Of course I will."

Tony reaches out and takes his hand again. He places Steve's hand firmly on his other arm, next to the cuff that the gauntlet rolled into.

"Here," Tony says. "You can help if you want. Hands-on activity. Let me show you how this all comes off." He grins. "Probably something you should know how to do for emergencies anyway, right?"

"Probably," Steve agrees.

On the rare occasions when he'd thought about _Tony Stark_ and _naked_ and, in a daring combination, _getting Tony Stark naked_ \-- he'd been imagining something that was, well... seductive. Something that wouldn't be out of place in one of those many photoshoots the internet had been all too eager to show him: Tony lounging on a beach, wearing an artfully-rumpled suit, the top two buttons undone as he gazed soulfully at the camera. But those were all from before Iron Man, and -- as Steve is beginning to understand -- none of them were the real Tony Stark, either.

So if instead it feels like he ought to have an instruction manual and a set of socket wrenches, that's fine. Better than fine. This is the real Tony. This is Steve's beloved Shellhead, coming out of the shell. And this is for him alone, for the two of them, not for anyone who buys a magazine.

He likes the thought of that.

Tony nudges Steve's hand onto the metal cuff, and he turns his arm over until Steve sees a nearly invisible switch on the inside edge of the cuff.

"Go on," Tony says, encouraging. "Don't be shy, now. It's just me. You know me. I promise you do."

Steve presses the switch. He isn't quite sure what he expected to happen, but none of his expectations were adequate to the experience of watching the golden metal of Tony's sleeve suddenly sag limply, then detach from the shoulder of his armor and begin to retract into the cuff the same way that the gauntlet had. It's like a magic trick, except it's not a trick at all.

"Magnets!" Tony says, his smile brimming with pride, and Steve realizes Tony's never really gotten to show off the armor, not like this. He's beginning to suspect Tony's the kind of guy who loves talking about the things he's made, and he hasn't been able to tell Steve the half of it before now. "Wonderful things, aren't they? The metal itself is actually a flexible mesh that polarizes when it's all hooked up. That's how it molds itself to my body and provides actual armoring."

He hadn't been lying when he'd said it was skin-tight, either; as the armor peels away Steve can see Tony's well-developed biceps. Steve had known perfectly well that the muscles were real, but that's a very different thing from seeing them in person.

"You can touch me, you know," Tony says, amused and nervous at the same time, and Steve realizes Tony's caught him staring. "This is a contact sport."

Steve can't help but laugh. Iron Man -- Tony -- always makes him laugh. "And how do we tell who's winning?"

He lets his hand settle on Tony's upper arm; Tony exhales in a long shudder and his eyes fall half-shut, heavy-lidded with pleasure. He's smiling. Steve wants to paint him.

"Me," Tony declares, confidently, with a laugh of his own. "I'm definitely winning."

There's a low, throaty note in his voice that's never been there before, and something in Steve thrills to hear it. Tony's _enjoying_ this, and it's exactly what Steve wanted.

"Maybe we're both winning," Steve offers.

"Maybe so." Tony grins again. "Come on, come on, I'll show you the rest of me."

At Tony's urging, he repeats the process on Tony's other arm, and then moves to Tony's leg, where the same thing happens with the boots. The soles of the boots are thick, separate pieces, but the boots themselves detach from them and retract into the cuffs, and then the same thing happens with the metal covering Tony's legs. Steve hadn't quite realized until this moment that Tony has _really nice thighs_.

"Steve?" Tony prompts. "You okay there?"

"Uh," Steve says, intelligently. "I. Uh. Fine."

Tony pushes himself up to sitting, reaches out, and pats Steve's cheek. "Glad to hear it." He unhooks the remains of the cuffs and boots and tosses them haphazardly in the direction of the floor, and then there's something sad and faraway in his eyes again. "The big thing that's left is the chestplate, but that's also where things get ugly, so I understand if this is enough for you."

Steve squints at him, because that doesn't make any sense. "You said you couldn't take that off."

"Eh." Tony raises his hand and tips it to the side. "Yes and no. The outer layer of the armor hooks into a second piece, and that's the part I have to wear. Not this. On the field, if I were unconscious, you might have tried to strip the whole thing off me, and that would have been... bad, so stressing that the chestplate couldn't come off was the simplest way to go, then. But the outer armor is just armor." He taps his metallic shoulder with one finger. "When I was redesigning the armor, after I got home, I wanted to be able to wear the chestplate under ordinary clothes. Still can't let anyone touch me, or they'll figure it out, but at least I can fit into a button-down shirt. And that's what's really important, right?"

His tone is dry, flippant, although it's obvious that keeping up appearances as Tony Stark is, in fact, something that's important to him. Preserving the secret. Not letting anyone know how badly he's wounded. How much he's hurting.

And yet he's sitting here, offering to show Steve all the scars.

"You should do whatever you're most comfortable with," Steve tells him, because that's the truth. "If you don't want me to see -- if you don't ever want me to see -- you don't have to show me. You don't owe me anything."

Tony licks his lips. "I've never really had a choice before," he says, softly. "Not about this. But if I get a choice, then I pick you."

"Well," Steve says. There's a warm glow within him. "If you're sure."

Picking up one of Steve's hands, Tony guides it to one of the metal pads on his hips. "These first."

When Steve unhooks the first one, the armor whines quietly and the unibeam housing dims slightly.

"Those are the main power packs," Tony says, cheerfully. "Don't worry, there's a secondary battery in the chestplate itself. Other one now."

The other power pack comes off, and the armor goes completely dark. Tony deftly removes the belt they were attached to, and then he raises his arms. Steve slides his fingers up the nearly invisible side-seam of the armor and finds two depressions, just below Tony's arms on either side.

"Like this?"

"Probably," Tony says. "I can't see your hands at this angle, but there's a catch on each side, and-- hey, there you go, you're a natural."

Metal clicks beneath Steve's hands, and then splits beneath his fingers into two halves, chestplate and backplate. Steve eases the heavy panels away, half-aware of the shine of unpainted metal underneath, but he concentrates first on getting the bigger pieces out of the way. Then he looks up.

The metal wrapped around Tony's chest is a thin, delicate sheet, covering him from the bottom of his ribcage to the top of his breastbone. The scarring starts at Tony's hips, where the armor's crimson-metal groin plates still sit. Coarse, ridged lines travel up to disappear under the chestplate; on the other side of them, the scarring continues in silvery knots up to his collarbone. Asymmetrically, on his other side, a jagged line cuts up and over his other shoulder, almost to his back.

Steve lets his gaze rise higher. Tony is staring back at him, eyes wide and dark, lips parted. Vulnerable. The wrong word could break him.

"It's actually worse than it looks." Tony's voice is quiet. "It's pretty bad under the chestplate."

Steve breathes in and out. All he has is the truth. "You're still beautiful."

A corner of Tony's mouth twists. "You still don't need to lie to me."

"And I'm still not," Steve returns, evenly.

Tony's face is the picture of skepticism. He waves his hand vaguely in Steve's direction. "Winghead, you could have your pick of anyone in the whole goddamn world."

"Yes, well," Steve says, a little tartly. "I've _picked_. I kind of thought I made that clear."

Tony opens his mouth and closes it again. "I suppose you did." He half-smiles.

Steve finds he can't look away from Tony's lips. He thinks maybe now he doesn't have to. "Would you-- would you mind if I kissed you?"

"Would I _mind_ ," Tony echoes, in disbelief, and he leans in--

And then he winces. His hand goes to his hip.

Concerned, Steve draws back and peers at him. "You all right?"

"Sorry," Tony says. "The, uh. The groin plates are cutting in a little funny. Do you mind if I...?" He leaves the sentence unfinished.

Steve raises an eyebrow. "You think I'm going to object?"

Standing up, Tony starts to peel apart the remaining two armor plates at his hip. "Don't worry," he says, brightly. "I'm decent." Then he frowns. "For a certain value of _decent_ , I suppose. I, uh. I didn't think anyone else was going to be seeing my underwear today."

Steve didn't think Tony's complexion could let him blush, but there are bright spots of color in his cheeks, and when he lets the remaining armor fall, Steve sees why: he's wearing black lingerie, a barely-there creation of silk and lace, clinging to the curves of his ass.

He can't stop staring. God, Tony's _beautiful_.

"Look," Tony says, sounding defensive, even though Steve hasn't made a sound, "I just like to feel pretty, okay? It's not a crime."

He wonders what the hell Tony wears when he thinks someone else is actually going to be looking; he suspects he might not survive the answer.

"It literally isn't a crime," Tony says. He frowns. "Shit, it was in the forties, wasn't it? _Was_ it?"

For the first time, the past feels like another life, when he calls it to mind. "Depends how much you were wearing," he says. This conversation is surreal. He never thought he'd be telling anyone about this. "They used to say you had to wear three items of clothing of the appropriate sex, or they arrested you. Don't know if it was a real law, but that was the excuse. It was usually what they hauled the queens and the butches in for, when the bars got raided."

Tony's staring back at him like he honestly didn't expect Steve to have that particular answer. 

"I'm not an innocent," Steve says. "And you-- you look real swell, Tony."

He knows the word is old-fashioned now; he wouldn't have said it if he hadn't been thinking about the bars.

"Thank you," Tony says, softly. He takes a hesitant step in Steve's direction. "So, maybe you want to try the kissing part again?"

Steve's starting to feel distinctly overdressed. "One second."

It doesn't take him long to pry off his boots, peel off his socks, and shimmy out of his gloves, uniform shirt, and undershirt. When he has his hands on his belt, he looks up, to find that Tony looks even more nervous than before.

"Um," Tony says, and he winces again. "I don't mean to lead you on, but I also wasn't kidding when I said I couldn't get it up." He grimaces. His face is still faintly flushed. "Unfortunately."

Steve remembers wondering why anyone would give a damn about Iron Man's private medical business. He still doesn't think anyone should give a damn about Tony Stark's, either, but he understands that the gossip-hungry public would pounce on this tidbit, if they ever found it out. Steve's certainly not planning on telling anyone.

"It's all right," Steve says. "That doesn't matter." He holds out his hands. "Just be with me. That's all I want."

They can figure out the rest some other time. Right now, he just wants to touch Tony.

Tony takes a step closer, and then another step. His hands settle onto Steve's shoulders, and then Steve wraps his arms around Tony's waist and gently pulls Tony over, atop him, pulling him backwards onto the bed.

"Oh," Tony breathes, entranced, and Steve leans up and kisses him, as Tony relaxes into his embrace.

The kiss is brief but heartfelt, and when Steve lifts his head, Tony is staring at him in unmixed awe.

Steve runs his fingers through Tony's hair. "It's been a while since anyone held you, huh?"

Nodding, Tony looks like he's going to cry again. "Three years. God, Steve, you feel so good." He presses up against Steve, wrapping his arms around him like he wants to touch him with every square inch of skin. Steve thinks that sounds like a great idea.

"I love you," Steve says. He smiles. "Thought maybe I should keep telling you that."

Tony noses Steve's jaw and presses kisses to his throat. And then he stops.

Steve pulls back to look at him. "Tony?"

"I wasn't lying about anything," Tony says, softly. "It was all true." He pauses. "Even my ring size."

Steve's heart is pounding. "If you're saying what I think you're saying, I, uh. I don't have a ring."

"You don't need one right now," Tony assures him. "Just say yes."

Oh. Steve never imagined _he_ might be the one being proposed to.

None of this is going the way Steve had planned, but at the same time it's better than he could have dreamed.

"Yes," Steve breathes. "Yes, yes, yes."

And then Tony kisses him again, and everything is perfect.

* * *

"Next, please."

The clerk glances between the two of them. It's hard to faze New Yorkers, especially these days, but Steve can hazard a guess that she wasn't expecting Tony Stark on the other side of the counter. With a man.

"Hi." Tony beams. "We'd like a marriage license."

It's what everyone else in this line wants; it shouldn't be a surprise. She hesitates for a fraction of a second before she passes the form over. Steve can imagine her deciding which of her friends to text with the news: _you'll never guess who I saw_.

_Why bother with a press release about our relationship_ , Tony had said. _Let's just go get a damn license._ And he seemed to have forgotten that Steve was the kind of fella who threw himself out of airplanes without a parachute on the regular because Steve just said _sure, sounds great_ , and here they are.

The clerk is squinting at Steve. He's out of uniform. He's nobody. She has no idea who he is. He's the mystery man marrying Tony Stark. He kind of likes that.

Tony grabs a ballpoint pen with one hand and Steve's arm with the other, and he hauls him down to an open space on the counter. "Ooh," Tony says, perusing the form. "Gender-neutral, nice. Do you want to be Party A or Party B?"

"There's an A on my head," Steve points out.

Tony pokes a finger against Steve's bare forehead. "Not right now, there isn't. But fine. I love you so much that I'll let you be Party A. I am so nice to you."

"You are," Steve says, with absolute sincerity.

Tony grins affectionately and starts printing Steve's name and date of birth in his neat drafting hand. "Do you think the clerk's going to figure out who you are when she gets to the 1920 part?"

"That or the address," Steve agrees. His secret identity has been more of an open secret up until now, but this is all going to be a matter of public record, and there aren't all that many people who share an address with Tony Stark. "The world does know who your housemates are, you know."

Tony has filled in his own name and birthdate and has moved on to filling in _890 Fifth Ave_ on both halves of the form. "Good point," he observes. "What with us living in sin and all."

"Hey!" Steve says. "I'm here to make an honest man of you. Or both of us. Or something."

He's not sure the rules really apply. He's not sure there are rules. He finds he likes that thought.

"And I'm sure you'll do a great job." Tony signs the bottom of the form with a flourish and then passes it over, along with the pen. "Your autograph, please."

Steve signs his name next to Tony's. He lets out the breath he was holding. This isn't the ceremony itself, sure, but this... it feels important. This is real. Official. This is where their life begins.

_This is how you marry a robot_ , he thinks, and he almost starts laughing.

He looks up and finds that Tony is smiling. "Keep breathing, Winghead," he murmurs. "You've got this. You've got me."

And he does.

**Author's Note:**

> Here is [a Tumblr post](https://sineala.tumblr.com/post/635428756167720960/fic-how-to-date-a-robot) for you to like/reblog.
> 
> Mhyr illustrated [the scene of Steve and Tony cuddling](https://twitter.com/Mhyrlovestony/status/1332488932160905218).


End file.
